Shatter
by RobinRocks
Summary: USUK/GerIta/Spamano: America wants to gift England with the world - but in a tightly-controlled post-war era where the nations are forced into liaisons for the sake of a stable economy and world peace, all he has to give is the American Dream.
1. Splinter

...If I was to say that this fic is like anything, I would describe it as a combination of _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ and _Inception_ (with _Hetalia_ thrown in, obviously!).

I know. It's a seriously strange, sort-of-accidental mash-up. o.O

Shatter 

[1/2]

"_Close your eyes." America smiled at him, his fringe sticking to his sweaty forehead. "Close them. I want to show you something. That thing I said I was working on, remember? Go on, shut your eyes. It's a surprise."_

"_You shouldn't," England replied, looking up at him. "No, you really shouldn't. Please don't do this, Alfr—" _

"_Sshhh. It'll be alright, I promise. This is still our little secret, Arthur."_

"_You don't know that. You just think that. You want to think it." England didn't dare touch him but gazed at him pleadingly, riding out their rhythmic rocking with no emotion whatsoever but for his sudden panic. "This is getting out of hand and you know it. Think of Antonio, think of... of Feliciano and Ludwig—"_

"_Relax, will you? I told you, this frequency is much too low for them to detect."_

"_Alfred—"_

"_Close your eyes, Arthur. It'll be better. I'm going to hack you anyway, you know, so you might as well."_

"_Don't, Alfred, for god's sake! It's too risky! You haven't even tried—"_

_America simply grinned and then it was too late. It was done. England opened the eyes he had never closed and found himself standing next to America in a wide sunny street, part of the pretty sprawl of Suburbia; they were before a small, beautiful house with lush grass neatly bordered by a white fence like a lace collar. It had a little blue mailbox by the gate and a deep, glossy front door beneath a filigree porch._

"_What do you think?" America asked cheerfully, putting his arm around England's shoulders and holding him close. "This is for you, Arthur. I built it for you all by myself. Only the best."_

"_This…" England slipped out of America's grasp, wide-eyed as he looked around. _

_It all felt so real, the fresh warmth of the air, the sweet taste of neatly-barbered grass on his tongue, the fine powder-gold of the sun as it fell on everything there was to see. There was an entire street to match the gift-house, homes running down both sides, all with their own breadbin-mailboxes on white poles and twee front doors at the hearts of charming porches. There were cars, too, colours like sky-blue and pale-silver and rocket-red, one, two, even three parked per drive._

"_You made this up," England said at length._

_America shrugged._

"_Well, sure," he agreed good-naturedly. "For you, I guess. For this. I mean, we were just fucking in a hotel room not half a minute ago, under the supervision of our ever-present attendants – in fact, that hasn't changed, babe. We're still fucking in a hotel room and those attendants are still there, watching us uninterestedly, doing their job, blah blah blah. So, yeah, this is made up – I built this on that super-low frequency we use to conduct our little affair and hacked you with it—"_

"_I know that," England said pithily. "I'm talking about this." He opened out his arms wide. "The way it looks. This is the American Dream, Alfred. This isn't real. This isn't what it really looks like."_

_America smiled brighter at him._

"_Actually," he corrected gleefully, "it does look somewhat like this. So all that screwing we do, right, totally boosts my economy – that's the point, after all. Of course, the war helped out with that too, not gonna lie, but the thing is that the American Dream was built on that money. This is what it looks like, Arthur. If you think it looks too superficial, too man-made, well... this is how millions of Americans live."_

"_Well, I'm not American," England sighed. "So why this? I was fine before, you know – with your other last-minute simulations. Even just editing out the attendants or other nations so... so we could actually be alone while we're having sex..." He shook his head. "Why this? This is dangerous and you know it, trying to build us some little cutaway life, a damned escape route – so why?"_

_America blinked at him, appearing confused; he crossed to England again, taking his hands._

"_Well, because this is the American Dream," he explained, "and so I dream of it."_

* * *

><p>(At world meetings, there was a big electronic board which constantly updated the rise and fall of international economies, pulsing them like a heart monitor, and it was the job of the attendants to keep track of their country's position, take note of matches and thus direct them into the appropriate... <em>liaison<em>. There were tables for this, three of them, and additional flat surfaces if really required. The meeting went on as usual, undisturbed by the nations coming and going between one another – there was no embarrassment or privacy about this sex, nothing personal or loving, perhaps a little bit friendly if the nations in question happened to naturally _like_ one another as acquaintances (though nothing more).

This wasn't about sex – this was enforced coupling of nations every time their economies affected one another, governments desperately trying to balance out the global market to avoid another Great Depression; _that_ and bettered international relations, of course, in the hopes of avoiding another world war. With this, there was no favouritism and no resentment, no love and no hate between countries, and it had been decided that this was how the world needed to work.

It had to be tightly controlled.)

Germany was sitting to the side with his attendant – a sour-looking man with a thin moustache by the name of Dreher – patiently awaiting his turn; every now and then Dreher gave an impatient cough and glared at America before turning his gaze on the present attendants of America himself and also England, tapping at his watch. America's attendant, tall and white-haired, had been in the US Army during the war, Colonel Clark, and knew all about the importance of time-keeping; nonetheless, he didn't much care for the German attendant's impatience and only addressed America some minutes later, sounding rather bored.

"Hurry it up, Alfred," he drawled in his lazy Southern twang. "I don't know why you always take your sweet time with Arthur, he ain't got much to offer you besides what Britain owes us."

Hall, the British attendant (a stocky man with his greying hair combed neatly back) _harrumphed_ over his newspaper and America scowled, pausing to glance at Clark.

"Sorry, sir," he bit out. "I guess I'm kinda tired. This is the sixth time this morning."

"Well, we aim to make it seven," Dreher said coolly, "so hurry yourself along."

Germany shot America an apologetic look. America simply glanced at him uninterestedly before turning his attention back to England, who lay beneath him on the table with his hands clasped across his stomach. They were always positioned very regimentally, with no contact allowed but for the penetration itself – no kissing, no touching, no leaning close to whisper – and the most common away of going about it was to have the receiving nation lie on their back on the table, their legs overhanging the edge, and the giving nation stand over them. It was practical and put a lot of distance between them but they were still able to look at one another during the act, which was roughly about half of the point. It was about building bridges, after all, in both economy and relations. Spain had once said, rather loudly and bitterly, that if all they were meant to do was fuck and be done with it, why the hell didn't they just do it from behind; to which the answer had been "Well, we want you all to be _friends_ – just not _good_ friends"—

Not good friends and _certainly_ not lovers.

(Spain wasn't going to be asking things like that anymore.)

"Are you alright?" England asked, looking up at America's exhausted face.

America smiled and nodded.

"Yeah, I'm good," he replied. "Just, you know, tired."

England gave an understanding nod. In the aftermath of the war, the United States had become the richest and most powerful country in the world, making its economy by far the strongest and most dominant player. As such, America himself was, for lack of a better phrase, constantly "in demand", every tiny twitch in his economy constantly having knock-on effects on everyone else's – and countries which had crawled out of WWII in utter ruins were his most common bedmates. England in particular found himself constantly underneath America, owing him millions in US dollars because of Truman's enforcement of the Lend-Lease being repaid in full—

America, nonetheless, always had at least a kind smile for him (and often more).

"It's alright," England sighed, shifting a little. "Just finish. Ludwig has been ever so patient."

He turned his head to look at Germany as America continued to slam diligently against him, sweat beading on his forehead, glasses slipping. Germany met England's eyes only briefly before looking pointedly away. He wasn't embarrassed – nobody was embarrassed, this was the only way they could remember it – but he looked decidedly uninterested, instead scanning the room. His clear blue eyes settled on something but England didn't follow his gaze for fear of giving him away. He knew that Germany was looking at North Italy.

Relationships were utterly forbidden and no two nations were ever allowed to be alone together; in fact, nations were not even allowed to be alone in a _group_, accompanied by their attendants 24/7. At world meetings, at functions, at dinners, they were not allowed to sit next to one another, interspersed by handlers. They were allowed to talk freely enough between one another but never permitted to whisper anything, constantly having to speak at a level which could be heard by their attendants, and some topics were warningly headed off. They were not allowed to touch one another except for handshakes, not allowed to give one another anything and phone calls were absolutely prohibited.

This total control over the nations was a new thing, decided at the peace talks following the end of the Second World War. There had been too much freedom before. Nations had formed their own private alliances between one another, becoming fast friends and bitter rivals and falling in love, and all too often these relationships had jarred with those of international politics. Sometimes nations didn't want to fight one another – or, rather, sometimes they _did_, simply out of pure hatred. Emotional responses which mimicked those of human society, it had been agreed, had no place in the new world order.

And so the nations had had their memories prior to 1945 wiped, been fitted with brand new technology which allowed them to enhance and neutralise each others' economies when they coupled physically and been placed under the constant supervision of a chosen attendant from their country. Things had been like this for thirteen years and showed no signs of changing.

(It was just that some memories were harder to eliminate than others.)

—

America was still finishing up with Germany when Spain's attendant, a round, olive-skinned, balding man named García, came up to the podium and cleared his throat. Spain stood at his side, looking out at the gathered crowd of countries and handlers with a new and wary look on his face. At this, a few pairs of eyes turned towards South Italy, who was looking very fixedly at the floor.

Behind him, England heard America panting for breath and Germany muttering that he was sorry; he turned to look and Hall took him firmly by the chin and directed his face back towards the podium.

"I think you will do well to pay some attention to this, Arthur," Hall said coldly. "You're on rather thin ice yourself, old boy."

England pulled his head away with a scowl but didn't dare look back at America. It wasn't worth the risk.

García adjusted the microphone and looked keenly around at his audience.

"Well," he said in his rich accent, "we all know why we are here today – and while it was a lot of time, money and effort we Spanish could have done without wasting, I am pleased to announce on behalf of my country that the emotional mutation in our national economic representative has been dealt with."

There was some polite applause, mostly from the attendants. England felt his stomach sink and looked at France, who was sitting on the other side of Hall. France met his gaze; he looked crestfallen as well. This was the second time that this had happened – the first had been Belarus, whose aggressive affinity for Russia had been present even after her memory had been wiped post-WWII.

García took Spain by the shoulder and pushed him forward.

"The glitch was within his original personality, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo," García went on. "I am pleased to announce that, after some work, we were able to completely wipe this personality and, with it, all of his memory and perceived relationships with other nations. Please, you will refer to him by the name of Alonso from now on, for while he remains the same in body, in mind and personality he is an entirely different person – one which has no feelings whatsoever, romantic or otherwise, towards Lovino Vargas."

There was a dreadful hush on the part of the nations; America was done with Germany and they were fixing their clothing in silence, caught up beneath the same horrified spell as everyone else. García gestured towards them, looking at Spain.

"Alonso," he said in a kind voice, "these are your colleagues. You will get to know them better later, of course."

Spain nodded and smiled his exact same vapid, friendly smile.

"Hola," he said pleasantly. "My name is Alonso. I look forward to working with you all."

It sounded so rehearsed, so unnatural, that it was sickening. It had probably been programmed into him alongside his new personality. England tried to catch France's gaze again but France wouldn't look up from his lap, his blonde hair curtaining his face.

García led Spain off the stage and took him to sit down; their presence was replaced by a pale, ruffled-looking Germany, accompanied by Dreher. In his thick accent, his voice sounding a little shaken, Germany began to speak. Over his head, the names and numbers continued to shift and change, bumping about until they found matches.

"France and Poland." Fonteneau, France's attendant, stood up, taking France by the elbow. "14.3 match."

Poland's attendant stood too, ushering Poland along.

"Come, Feliks," he said briskly.

Poland followed obediently, though he looked rather sulky. He and France were taken to the back of the room and the meeting carried on as though nothing had happened. By the time they returned, Poland distractedly smoothing his hair down, Austria had been matched with Belgium, France had been matched again with Norway and America was fast asleep in his seat.

South Italy didn't look up at all.

* * *

><p>"Come on, boys, lickety-spit," Hall muttered, folding his arms. "You know you aren't really meant to be enjoying this."<p>

"Ah, but Francis is such a particular creature," Fonteneau said sardonically. "You must understand that he is an artist even in this, Monsieur Hall."

France grinned down at England before rolling his eyes. England nodded agreeably. He was on his back again and had his arms folded because he hadn't known quite what else to do with them; France was riding him, doing most of the work, and of course the natural thing to do would be to put his hands on France's thighs or at his waist to give him some support. That was prohibited, of course, so England just let France get on with it and hoped he didn't lose his balance. They were on a bed in a hotel room but it still wouldn't do for him to fall.

France wasn't like America. Nobody was like America – who was so powerful that he had worked out how to override the matching frequency of the electronic economy systems in their bodies and delve into a lower one, hacking his partner and taking them with him.

—Well, taking _England_ with him. America had sworn that England was the only person he did this to – the only person he shared this coveted privacy with. On that much lower communication level, far too low to be detected by their attendants and their little handheld devices which measured the compatibility of the various couplings and recorded the economy neutralisation effects, America and England could actually have a proper, unmediated conversation.

That was where Spain had made his mistake. He had loved South Italy but he had lacked the privacy to do it in. He had said it out loud.

England, too, didn't know how to do it; and neither did France. Only America, with his leading economy and military strength, was able to secretly override the system and say whatever the hell he wanted. France was, nonetheless, quite talkative during sex, usually pushing as far as he could get away with before being reprimanded by Fonteneau.

"Antonio must have told Lovino that he loved him," he said, holding England's gaze. "That is the only explanation, non?"

England nodded again.

"And of course he was heard," he replied quietly. "He must have forgotten himself and... and said it while they were making love."

"Arthur," Hall said warningly.

England turned his head to look at his attendant, his expression resentful.

"What?" he asked tartly.

Hall snorted.

"Don't use phrases like 'making love'," Hall replied. "You know perfectly well that those sorts of things don't exist for you."

England averted his eyes to the ceiling again and crossed one ankle over the other, making France rock a little bit.

"Perhaps not," he said, "but nonetheless I expect that is what they were doing. That was why they wiped him."

France grinned again.

"So you do not consider _this_ to be love-making, mon ami?" He pretended to sigh. "Even though I am trying so hard to please you."

"Piss off, you disgusting frog."

"_Arthur!_" Hall looked livid. "If you cannot be civil – or, indeed, appropriate – then keep your mouth _shut_."

"Oui, Arthur, be nice," France pouted teasingly. "But not _too_ nice, of course. We wouldn't want anyone to think that you liked me."

"_Francis_," Fonteneau barked.

France simply glanced at England once more and they shared a sour smile.

* * *

><p>"I'm pretty amazing, huh?" Lying side-by-side on the bedsheets, America turned his face towards England, his cheek flat against the mattress. "I can't even <em>feel<em> that I'm actually screwing you." He squeezed England's hand tighter. "Feel anything down there?"

England rolled his eyes.

"No, nothing," he replied dryly. "Thank god. You lack finesse."

America laughed.

"I fuckin' shouldn't," he said. "I get the most practice outta everyone. Those damn attendants have always got their countries queuing up for a piece of American pie."

England shuddered.

"That's a hideous mental image," he muttered.

"Yeah? Well, do you like _this_ mental image better?" America gestured around the room. "It's just a plain old hotel room – the same one we were in thirty seconds ago. That we're _still_ in, actually."

England smiled.

"I do like this better," he said. He paused, enjoying the artificial silence. "Because we're completely alone."

"I know, right?" America held up their clasped hands. "Look at this right here. Absolutely _scandalous_."

"Downright filthy behaviour," England agreed. "Next you'll be wanting to... to go for a walk in the park or visit the museum!"

"Oh, my innocence!" America laughed and threw his free arm over his eyes. "You've utterly ruined me, Mr Kirkland, you shameless fiend, you."

England batted at him.

"Do hush. You're making me sound positively _wicked_."

"You _are_ positively wicked. You're a criminal – a thief, to be exact."

"Why?" England grimaced. "Don't tell me that I stole your heart."

"Boo." America pouted. "You saw through it."

"I know you too well, I think."

America smiled again.

"Well, that's good," he said happily. "I'm glad. We've got a lot of history, you and I, but of course they fuckin' wiped it – so I'm glad you know a _little_ something about me, at least."

England nodded but didn't reply, looking up at the ceiling. He knew he was looking up at the exact same ceiling in reality, though it was probably a bit obscured by America's shoulder as he thrusted.

"Hey." America rolled onto his side and nudged at England. "What's up? Can you feel the half-assed job I'm doing or something?"

England shook his head.

"No," he sighed. "I was... just thinking about Antoni—ah, I mean _Alonso_." He frowned. "No, I suppose I _was_ thinking about Antonio. Was he stupid? He must have been rather vocal about it because it seems that Lovino barely reciprocated."

"Mmm. Guess that's why they didn't wipe Lovino too."

"He must feel awful. I've never liked Lovino all that much but I do feel terribly sorry for him. Even if he didn't love Antonio in return, I'm sure he feels that this is his fault."

"Well, jeez, don't say _that_ to him!" America said incredulously. "Have you been matched with him yet?"

"At this meeting?" England shook his head. "No. Have you?"

"Nuh-uh. I was with _Alonso_ this afternoon, though."

"Oh? What's he like?"

America shrugged.

"He's alright, I guess. Kind of similar to Antonio, to be honest. Smiles a lot, stuff like that. I dunno, I guess I was a little disappointed since I was expecting him to be radically different, but then again all I did was give him a quick pounding in his hotel room, so maybe that's not a whole lot to go on. He could still turn out to be a total dickwad or something."

"Mmm." England shifted closer to America and laid his head on his shoulder. "...Dreadful, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Antonio. Alonso." England sighed. "The whole thing. The way they wiped his personality completely, it's as though... well, as though he's _dead_."

America was silent for a long moment.

"Are you worried?" he asked at length.

"About what?"

"Us. This." America gave him a squeeze. "Are you worried they'll catch us and wipe us too?"

England didn't answer for a long while.

"...Do _you_ think they will, Alfred?" he asked eventually.

America grinned and shook his head.

"Nah, I'm pretty confident about this. This frequency is so low it's off the chart. You know, the _bottom_ of the chart." He turned his head and kissed England on the cheek. "Do you trust me, babe?"

England sighed.

"I suppose so," he muttered. "There's no denying that you're very good at this."

"Great – because I'm working on a little something."

"What?" England asked suspiciously.

"Haha, you have to wait and see. It's a surprise – but if I can pull it off, I think you'll like it. Might take a while, though, because I'm still messing around with stuff and it's going to take a lot more power than it does to generate _this_."

England bit at his bottom lip.

"Well," he said defeatedly, "just don't overdo it, alright? This is fine, you know. I'm perfectly happy with this. You don't have to do anything magnificent for me, Alfred."

America merely laughed again and rolled over, gathering England right up in his arms and cuddling him close.

"It's no big deal," he promised. "Nothing's too magnificent for you, Artie. I want to give you the world."

* * *

><p>"<em>Are you done bitching now?" America asked cheerfully, pulling England up the steps of the quaint gingerbread porch. "Hot damn, you get worked up sometimes. I told you it would be fine. It's always been fine before – why wouldn't it be now?"<em>

"_Well, this... this is different," England replied lamely. "I know you've been working on this but... I didn't want anything to go wrong with the hack. Don't forget that we're not alone in the room, Alfred. All it would take would be one misfire and—"_

"_Well, hey, seize the day, huh?" America interrupted, opening the front door. "It's now or never."_

_He turned towards England and grabbed him about the waist, lifting him with ease._

"_What are you doing?" England demanded, squirming in his grasp. "Unhand me!"_

"_Well, duh, I gotta carry you over the threshold." America laughed and stepped through the doorway with one stride, his cargo struggling the entire way. _

"_That's a bride, you moron!" England was incensed – and even more so when America didn't put him down. "I say, let go!"_

"_Aww, Arthur, I thought you were a stickler for traditions." America lifted England overhead, still gripping him around the waist. "Want me to spin you around?"_

"_Want me to kick you in the balls?"_

_America snickered._

"_I don't know if it would hurt all the way down here," he said, shrugging._

"_Shall we find out?" England asked dangerously._

"_Oh, you," America teased; and he swung England down again, kissing him on the forehead as his feet touched the floorboards. "You're such a darling."_

"_I'm nothing of the sort." _

_England was about to fold his arms as haughtily as possible but America seized his hand and tugged at him, bringing him stumbling along after him._

"_Come on, grand tour!" America cried gleefully. "This took me a while to put together so I want only positive feedback!"_

"_What," England said wryly, "are you scared I won't like it?"_

_America smiled brilliantly at him, leading through to the front room._

"_Of course not," he replied. "I know you'll love it."_

_The house certainly was as beautiful inside as it was out; straight out of a housekeeping magazine, the absolute epitome of the perfect home (as dictated by the American Dream). The front room had plush, square furniture in pristine pastel colours and large windows edged with lace curtains, pretty lamps on prettier side-tables and cream carpet and a glass coffee table; a marble fireplace, too, and that luxury of all luxuries, a television. The next room was the kitchen, done out in white and chrome with mint-green walls and all the appliances money could buy, so modern that it seemed to have an electric buzz about it. Up the stairs (with their handsome carved banister) was the bathroom, black-and-white tiles and modern fittings, of course, not to mention the matching embroidered hand-towels and bath mat; next to this, the bedroom, all deep and rich colours, thick curtains and thicker carpet, matching dresser and wardrobe set and a tall, rectangular mirror bordered with a sharp pattern of frosted glass; oh, and those crisp, perfect sheets—_

"_Only one bed," England remarked, arching an eyebrow._

"_Double bed," America replied._

"_Still presumptuous."_

"_Tch, don't give me that." America tugged at England's hand, pulling him out of the bedroom and down to the last room. "You'll be all over me when you see this."_

_He pushed open the door to the study, revealing the cream walls lined with mahogany bookshelves, all full to bursting with books; there was a leather armchair next to a reading lamp, tall and brass and gothic with a shade of blown green glass, and a desk matching the bookcases with a typewriter in the centre of it like a crown jewel._

"_Come on," America laughed, pulling England through the study, feeling him resist and try to go to the bookshelves to look. "You can appraise my literary choices to your heart's content in a moment, sweetheart. Come and look, there's more."_

"_Oh, my, how you're spoiling me," England sighed, allowing himself to be dragged away from The Complete Works of Charles Dickens._

"_I know, right?" America wrapped his arms around England's waist from behind as he brought him to the window, resting his chin on his shoulder. "You can thank me later – very, very gratefully, of course."_

"_Of course."_

"_Well?" America knocked at the window, pointing at the little garden down below – quite different from the neat front lawn, instead bursting with colour, overflowing with all sorts of flowers so that their shredded contours spilled onto the winding cobblestone path at the heart of the yard. "Garden. You like flowers, right? And gardening and stuff?"_

_England frowned._

"_I... I don't know." He glanced back at America. "Do I?"_

_America's smile faded a little._

"_Oh, yeah," he replied. "Of course you, uh... you don't remember."_

_Seeing that America looked rather crestfallen, England went on hurriedly, "Well, it __**does**__ seem like something that I would enjoy. I'm sure I can get into it – or back into it, anyway." He smiled down at the garden. "Regardless, it __**is**__ beautiful, Alfred. It all is."_

_America grinned again._

"_Do you really like it?"_

"_Of course I do. It's wonderful, it's... it's just—too much, really it is. You didn't have to do all this for me."_

"_I wanted to." America squeezed him in a hug, rocking him back and forth. "I just knew you'd love it."_

"_I do. Thank you, Alfred." England rubbed his hands on top of America's. "You're so kind sometimes."_

_America laughed against his neck._

"_Well, gee, you're welcome. Now then... about that bed—"_

"_I should have known," England groaned. "It's ironic that that's what we __**are**__ actually doing, isn't it?"_

"_Not like this. This would be more along the lines of... hmm, afternoon delight?"_

_England rolled his eyes._

"_Where did you get that disgusting term from?" he asked wryly._

"_You." America kissed the crook of England's neck. "During the war. You'd come up beside me and whisper it in my ear as casually as suggesting afternoon __**tea**__. Then we'd sneak off and go find the least awkward place we could to screw, which wasn't always easy. There wasn't much comfortable about that war – sometimes it was just in the back of one of the Jeeps or something. But it's okay. I know you don't remember."_

"_You do, though." England frowned. "Why is that, Alfred? You're not supposed to."_

_America shrugged._

"_Who knows? I can do a lot of stuff I'm not supposed to." He gestured around at the beautiful little house surrounding them. "Like this." He began to bundle England out of the room. "Now come on, let's get cracking on christening those sheets."_

_England was more than compliant by the time America lifted him onto the bed, laughing as he pulled him down with him, carding his hands up through caramel-coloured hair as America wrapped his arms around him. They could touch one another down here – they could hold one another close and whisper whatever they wanted._

"_Was it like this?" England asked breathlessly. "B-back then in... the Jeep or wherever?"_

"_This is better." America finished unbuttoning England's shirt and slid it off. "We can undress here; couldn't back then, you know, in case an air-raid warning went off or something."_

"_But was it... __**like**__ this?" England insisted, enclosing his arms around America's neck. "I mean, we could... we could touch and... and kiss and whatever else we wanted, right?"_

_America smiled._

"_Of course. It wasn't like now."_

_England closed his eyes and sighed, arching as America began to kiss his chest._

"_I wish I remembered," he said. "They just use us like breeding animals now. Well, without the actual breeding part."_

"_Sure they're breeding us. Breeding our economies, anyway." Going lower, America kissed his navel, unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks. "That's how I understand it."_

_Confused, England propped himself up, looking down at him._

"_Where are you going?" he asked warily._

"_Down here."_

"_**Why**__ are you going down there?"_

_America slipped down England's underwear with a hearty little laugh._

"_Of course, of course," he said, "you don't... you don't remember this sorta—well, just hang on a tick and I'll show you..."_

_England scowled._

"_I'm not naïve, you know," he bit out._

_America merely smiled._

"_You weren't," he agreed, "until they wiped out half your brain, babe. It's funny – this situation was the other way around once. April 1942. Good fuckin' times."_

"_Alfred, what on earth are you—?"_

_America lowered his mouth and England's indignant query died a death on his tongue, giving way to a strangled gasp; his back arched off the bed again as he felt that wet heat, that mouth he had taken for granted down here (but never, for all his memory served, truly tasted) enclosing around him, drawing him in tight like a secret. His scope of perceived experience was but thirteen years long, and for all those thirteen years, he could not recollect anything feeling quite like this, quite so stifling and narrow and focused, so intense and intent, even, on making him shudder, his whole body laying down arms to a domineering unresponsiveness so that he could do nothing but writhe as his nerve endings sparked and frothed. The bed, the whole room, in fact, felt as though it was shaking, its very existence stuttering, but he paid it no heed with that feeling like the sun blooming at his very core, wrapping his legs around America—_

"_Arthur. Arthur!"_

_(He sighed happily – and it didn't occur to him, of course, that it couldn't possibly be America who was saying his name, his mouth so wonderfully otherwise engaged—)_

"—_Arthur!"_

_He was shaken violently and opened his eyes with a gasp, panting as he looked around in bewilderment. Their pretty little house was gone and in its place that drab old hotel room, America leaning over him with his blue eyes wide behind his sliding glasses, looking rather shocked himself._

_They were not alone, of course. Clustered close, pulling and wrenching at them, were Clark and Hall; dazedly, England wondered why they were being forcibly separated until he felt his knees being shoved apart and realised that he'd had his legs tangled about America's waist. One of his hands, too, was fisted in the lapel of America's suit jacket, clinging grim-death even as Hall fought to disentangle his white fingers._

"_Let go, Arthur, for god's sake!" Hall hissed, prying him loose. "I don't know what the hell has gotten into you—!"_

_Clark finally succeeded in pulling America away from England, pushing him back and placing himself between them. He coughed exaggeratedly, straightening his tie._

"_Well," he said dryly, "this has been interesting." He glanced at America, who was still catching his breath, and snapped his fingers at him. "Alfred. Don't just stand there. Get yourself tidied up."_

_America, still looking rather bemused, gave a shaky nod, peeled off the condom and started to fix his clothing, watching England through his eyelashes as he fumbled with his zip._

_England sat up, kneading at his forehead. He felt rather like a bolt of electricity had been shot straight through his skull, the violent separation of his and America's bodies leaving him shivering. The silence in the cramped hotel room was unnerving._

"_Wh... what happened?" he asked hoarsely, glancing at Hall._

"_What happened?" Hall sneered unkindly at him. "Why don't __**you**__ enlighten __**us**__ with regard to that matter? The pair of you suddenly went very quiet and didn't respond to neither Mr Clark nor myself – and then, not moments ago, Arthur, you seemed to think that it would be a good idea to breach the rules of this very mechanical coupling and took hold of Alfred's clothing, proceeding to follow this small violation with the much larger one of wrapping your legs about him like one of London's painted whores! If you would like to share with us what the devil came over you, please do!"_

_England shook his head, looking desperately at America – who met his gaze with the obvious silent plea of 'Don't say anything'._

"_I... I don't know," England said lamely, looking down at the bedsheets. "It just... felt rather good, I suppose—"_

"_My bad," America interrupted hurriedly. "I was penetrating him kinda deep. Musta hit his prostate or something."_

_Clark cleared his throat._

"_Well, I apologise, Mr Hall," he drawled. "It won't happen again, I assure you."_

"_No, no, __**I**__ apologise," Hall replied. "This was about Arthur not having any bloody self-restraint. Yes, it certainly won't happen again..."_

_England looked helplessly at America as Hall went to the door to open it for Clark and America himself. His heart thundered in his chest, so terrified was he that they'd been caught at long last—_

_America merely grinned at him behind their attendant's backs and mouthed 'Next time' at him. Then he was ushered out of the door by Clark and was gone, leaving England staring longingly after him with his clothing still in disarray and only Hall for company._

_Hall was furious. He shut the door and turned towards England, white with anger._

"_What in God's name do you think you're playing at, eh?" he spat. "Do you mean to make us look like fools? Having me apologise to that goddamn Yankee – as if it wasn't bad enough that we owe them millions from a war we couldn't have won without them, we've got you clinging grim death to their economic representative while he's buggering you!"_

"_It was an accident," England replied coldly, righting his clothing. "It's not easy to maintain a stiff upper lip the entire time you've got someone's cock up your arse. It wasn't meant as an exercise in humiliation for Great Britain, for goodness' sake."_

"_I don't think you really care either way, do you?" Hall hissed. "The whole bleeding lot of you, acting all hard done by because we monitor you – you don't care that it's for a good reason."_

"_It's ridiculous!" England fired back at him. "This is all ridiculous! We don't fuck with the economy, we didn't start those wars – what good do you think this will really do in the long run? This looks like a simple solution, doesn't it, controlling us so that you'll control the world, but sometimes things just... well, just __**happen**__ and there's nothing you can—"_

"_No, there will be no more "just happening"," Hall interrupted. "That is entirely the point. This system evaluates everything, levels everything into neutrality – and our tight control over who you may mix with and for how long, listening to every word you say, means that certain ideologies do not spread—"_

"_Communism," England groaned, rubbing at his forehead. "Damn it, Churchill..."_

"_Not only Communism – Nazism, Fascism... No more ideological warfare! No more people dying for their country!" Hall clenched his fists. "No more people dying for __**you**__, you selfish bastard. No more young men crying God for Harry, England and St George – while you sit back, well out of harm's way, and let them do it. I lost a brother and a nephew in that war, though they were all too happy to give their lives to serve you, __**England**__. Do you not think that it is time that you served your people in return?" _

_England looked away pointedly, turning his attention to the window, and Hall gave an impatient, exasperated sigh._

"_You are well cared for," he bit out. "You want for nothing – food, clothing, shelter, all paid for by Parliament. We ask you to give only a fraction of what those young men gave."_

"_Ha," England replied bitterly. "You say that as though you have taken nothing from me – and yet I cannot remember a thing before 1945. This awful war you're talking about? I have no recollection of it whatsoever. I don't know how your nephew and brother died. I could not even begin to imagine it. To my knowledge, I have never seen death."_

_Hall shot him a wry smile._

"_And you would curse us for stealing that from you?"_

"_We are political prisoners, not even allowed to touch one another, and you have the gall to call us pampered!" England spat. "I curse that you stole __**anything**__ from me – you ask me to serve a people that I have no knowledge of! Is it any wonder that we are more drawn towards each other than to our duties? Heaven __**forbid**__ that I should want to touch Alfred when he is always the kindest to me!"_

"_It is not Heaven which forbids it, as you know."_

"_Well," England replied archly, "as much as you treat us like mere machines, good for nothing but calculating our economies, you must know that we are more than that and cannot help it. You cannot banish emotions."_

_Hall's eyes darkened; and, perhaps feeling threatened, he slipped back the edge of his suit jacket just a little, letting the Browning pistol in its holster glint like a memory._

"_Perhaps not," he agreed, "but we can punish them. Now if I were you, Arthur, I would watch my attitude – keep mouthing off as you have been doing recently and at best you'll end up like Antonio Carriedo and Feliciano Vargas."_

_England eyed the gun in disinterest before looking away again. Getting himself and America caught was a genuine worry – but nonetheless he didn't think that Gregory Hall had the balls to shoot him. _

"_And at worst?" he sighed._

_Hall drew himself haughtily, eying England with genuine dislike._

"_Well, you'll end up like both Beilschmidts, of course."_

* * *

><p>Oh, my how cryptic! Well, I hope everyone likes it so far. :3 As I'm sure you can tell by now, the italicised 'American Dream' segments take place at a later period than the rest of the narrative – everything will come together in the second half.<p>

The full version of that immortal phrase: "The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry "God for Harry, England and Saint George!"" – it's from _Henry V_ by William Shakespeare. If it sounds particularly familiar, you're probably remembering that Robert Downey Jr's Holmes quoted it to Jude Law's Watson in the 2009 film _Sherlock Holmes_; 'the game's afoot' is commonly associated with Holmes in all aspects, having first been quoted by him in _The Adventure of the Abbey Grange_ (1904) by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

On a final, unrelated note that I sort of feel that I should mention anyway... Wow, I really can't believe it's been ten years since 9/11 tomorrow. I think because it still comes up so much in even day-to-day conversation, it really doesn't seem like it was a whole decade ago. o.O I expect that there will be some 9/11-themed works in this fandom tomorrow, which is fair enough – I just hope people will be both sensible and sensitive about it. It's such a significant anniversary and some people in the _Hetalia_ fandom aren't exactly known for tact... and maybe that's okay usually since _Hetalia_ itself doesn't seem to pull any punches over who it offends (even Korea~!), but... idk. I really hope people will treat this anniversary with the respect that it deserves.

AND NOW TO GET OFF THE SOAPBOX. XD

Thank you so much for reading! Please come back for Part II... whenever I write it! Arghhhh, my backburner isn't getting any shorter... This is why. D:

RR xXx


	2. Crack

So this... was totally meant to only be a two-parter but _as usual with me_ there was some copious word-vomiting and now it's going to be a three-parter because this second part alone is twenty pages of Size 8 Verdana on MS Word. o.O

SO YEAH, I'm going to drag this out for a bit longer. You're welcome. :D Actually, this has been surprisingly popular so I would just like to say thank you to all who read/reviewed the first chapter! I'm really happy that everyone likes this story so far!

**In this part:** The History of Great Britain (and, to some extent, the world) Since 1620 According to Alfred F. Jones. Now you know you can't pass up a chance to see _that_. ;3

Shatter 

[2/3]

_Stretch twist burn flex taste touch move – everything moving, nothing regimental, nothing forbidden. Nothing real, either, but hardly mattering, they were close, so so so close and all entangled with their arms around another, rocking, shuddering, hips swaying in synchronisation, fingers pressing and slipping on sweat-slicked skin, all mere perception and perfect and private._

"_This is better," America whispered with his mouth against England's neck, sturdy bedframe and pliable mattress and soft sheets underneath them the way it was supposed to be. "This is much better. Stay calm – just stay calm and it'll be easier for me. You've been so good these last few times. You're doing so well, baby." _

_England nodded, his eyes wide open and staring right past America's shoulder at the dresser. There were things on that dresser, items that they didn't really own but which gleamed secretly with the sacred marks of ownership nonetheless. He could see the rustle of the sheets in the mirror, too, and the careless fall of the thick curtains pulled shut and solidly draped like a glacier. There was a painting of a ship on the wall, hanging a little crooked. How irksome._

_(Almost real.)_

_America kissed his collarbone, then his neck, then his jaw, solid and heavy when England tried to arch under him; his laugh echoed on England's skin, whispering that his nails tickled, giggling as he begged him not to leave marks._

"_Think of the scandal you'll cause," he breathed, taking England's elbows and moving his arms up to cling on around his neck. "Leaving scratch marks down my back... It's not like I can erase them down here, right?"_

"_Quiet or I'll bite you, too." _

"_Bite me and I won't bleed outta sheer spite."_

"_Heh." Smirking, England closed his eyes, pressing himself closer. America started to kiss his neck again and he tipped his head back against the pillow. "God, America...! Y-you're amazing..."_

"_Mm." America slipped his palms up under England's shoulder blades, cradling him. "I'm so glad you think so. You're about the only person I got left to impress, Arthur." He pulled him upwards and kissed him._

_England tightened his arms around America's neck, enjoying the simple, carnal feel of him; the pounding of their blood matching the pulse of their lovemaking, raw and reduced down to sightless touch, to oppressive scent, to warmth and friction and pleasure (how it should be and how it never was). The room was filled with the sound of sex, soft and sultry but not silent – and the smell of it, too, fabricated musk on stale, still air. It was perfect, all perfect—and fake and built with cobweb memory, the barest breaths of old grimy stinking sex between the cracks, and he ached with the fullness of it, the crushing closeness as his body sang and of course it wasn't real but it was better._

"_I love you," England whispered as they parted. "Sshhh." He gave an ironic smile. "Don't tell anyone."_

"_I love you too." America too smiled around the four-word ransom note. "And now we're even."_

_When it was over, America rolled them both over and wrapped his arms around England from behind, nestling against him so that they fitted like silver spoons. England stretched in America's arms before cuddling close again, closing his eyes. It was warm and comfortable and quiet – the room their confidant, entrusted to keeping their secret._

"_I love this part," England confided gently. "I like the sex where we can touch and kiss and cry 'God!' for each other but this... this is just wonderful. I love curling up with you afterwards, Alfred, and falling asleep in your arms."_

"_Mmm." America nuzzled at the back of his neck. "When I was a kid, we used to do this. Other way around, of course."_

"_And without the sex, I should hope."_

"_Yeah. That too."_

"_Do you mind if I... say something, however?"_

"_Sure."_

"_It does feel like we've been down here an awfully long time." England frowned worriedly. "I do hope that we're not lying unresponsively on the bed up there."_

_America laughed._

"_Nah," he promised. "We're still goin' at it, actually. Time perception, you see. I've been figuring out how to screw with it. We can stay down here for what feels like hours and hours but in reality it's only been about ten minutes." He grinned against England's shoulder. "Pretty cool, huh?"_

_England glanced back at him as best he could._

"_Is that safe?" he asked._

"_Well, sure! I'm not actually lengthening time at all, just our perception of it. I'm still working on it, of course. Right now I can get a couple of hours outta a few minutes. I'm trying to see if I can get it up to days – then weeks, of course, and then... hell, who knows? Maybe whole years!"_

_England sighed at him._

"_I doubt that's possible," he said, turning away again._

"_Of course it is," America replied confidently. "I just need to keep working on it, that's all. You'll see, I'll get there. How are we supposed to live our awesome American Dream if we can't even spend Christmas here, huh?" He squeezed England excitedly. "Which, by the way, is going to be the best Christmas you've ever had."_

"_You don't have much to beat, you know. Not to my knowledge, anyway."_

"_Even so! We'll have a huge tree with lights and baubles and tinsel and a fairy on the top because you love fairies—"_

"_Do I?"_

"_Shush, lemme finish. There'll be presents all wrapped up in bright paper and bows; oh, and music, of course! Bing Crosby, Doris Day, Nat King Cole, all the classics... We'll watch all the Christmas Specials on TV, too, and then we'll have Christmas dinner, turkey and ham and gravy and stuffing and potatoes and carrots and... and, well, I guess I'll give that more thought nearer the time! Oh, and don't forget, of course, that we totally have to go to church on Christmas morning to thank Jesus for sending Santa with all our presents! Obviously it'll be a White Christmas – just like Bing Crosby says! – so we'll go crunch-crunch-crunch all the way to church in hiking boots and thick coats and matching scarves that you hand-knitted by the fireside—"_

"_I don't know how to knit."_

"_Well, you'll learn. Re-learn, even."_

"_Is there even a church in this charming neighbourhood?"_

"_Huh. I don't remember now. Well, if there isn't, I'll just put one in!"_

_England smiled._

"_It all sounds perfect, Alfred," he said. "Perfectly wholesome."_

"_What's __**that**__ supposed to mean, huh?"_

"_Nothing." England laughed. "I'm looking forward to it."_

"_Good!" America exhaled against the back of England's neck. "...'Course, it sounds perfect because it's not... well, not real. But!" He laughed again, squirming like an excited child. "I figure to Hell with reality! Who needs it when you're this fucking happy?"_

* * *

><p>"<em>Brought you a drink, babe."<em>

_England straightened up, wiping his forehead with the back of his mud-streaked hand as he turned towards America – who was standing beaming before him holding two glasses of lemonade, ice cubes jingling like bells. It was a warm, bright afternoon with the sun blazing down generously on the small, beautiful garden of America's design and England's care, the entire yard seeming to pop with splashes of brilliant colour. The air was thick and heady with the clashing perfume of roses and sweetpeas and tulips and poppies and pansies, sweet like old blood and sensuously real. England smiled and put down his clippers on the cobbled pathway, pushing his sleeves back up to his elbows again before reaching instead for the glass offered out to him._

"_Thank you," he said, taking a grateful sip; sharp and cold and true as it sparked in his throat like fireworks. "I really needed this."_

"_Me too," Alfred replied cheerfully. "Just watching you was making me thirsty. Look at you, all togged up in that damn sweater vest and tie." He clinked his own glass against England's and chugged half of it in one gulp. "Jeez, that's better! Hot as balls today, ain't it?"_

"_You're the one controlling the weather, surely?" England remarked dryly._

"_Well, yeah." America shrugged and laughed. "You want rain to make you feel more at home?"_

"_Oh, no, I'm absolutely fine. I like the sun every now and then, believe it or not."_

"_Really?" America looked up at the perfectly clear sky, high and cornflower-blue. "Being an island, I thought you were an aquatic kinda fella, to be honest. You know, webbed toes and stuff?"_

_England snorted over his glass._

"_That's Francis," he said coolly. "You know, the disgusting slimy French frog." _

"_Ah. Yeah, that's right. You know what's kinda funny, Artie?"_

"_What?"_

"_You've lost so much of your memory, you don't even remember half the things you like, you can't even recall how to do some of the things that used to be second nature to you – and yet you've never forgotten that, to you, Francis is a disgusting slimy French frog."_

"_Well," England reasoned, "that's not so much a specific memory as it is a fact. I must simply have reformed the opinion upon being re-introduced to him post-1945."_

_America laughed._

"_Touché, monsieur," he drawled in a poor attempt at a French accent. "I'll drink to that!"_

_England watched him drain the rest of his lemonade, sipping at his own rather more carefully._

"_Alfred," he said quietly. "Can I ask you something? And... and please be honest."_

_America frowned._

"_When am I ever not honest?" he asked, blinking owlishly._

_England scowled._

"_When you're lying through your teeth, you little bugger."_

_America burst out laughing, clearly amused._

"_Well, gee, sure," he said, flapping his hand. "Ouch, though. Nice shootin', Tex. Shoot again while the going is good!"_

"_Ah, w-well..." England swilled his lemonade around the glass, watching the ice cubes bouncing about like jettied boats. "About... __**your**__ memories, old boy. You were wiped just like the rest of us and yet you seem to be largely unaffected, at least recently. How much do you remember exactly, Alfred – and __**how**__?"_

_America exhaled, looking skyward again for a moment. He put his free hand in his pocket and shifted his weight onto one leg, his hip jutting just enough to give him a curve. He was dressed very plainly in classic blue jeans, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a crude, battered metal cross on a chain glinting beneath his collar. He had had a cross (__**this**__ cross) before, he had explained, one with a lot of meaning to him, a decades-old gift from some president or other; but, as a religious item, it had been taken away from him when his memory had been wiped. While their respective landmasses could be considered to have a specific religion following the greatest denomination of their people, the nations themselves were no longer allowed to identify with one particular belief and America had forgotten all about the cross for a very long time. Here, however, he wore what he said was a perfect replica of it, if his memory served him well—_

_Which it certainly seemed to. Noticing that America was hesitating, England decided to start with the cross, pointing at it._

"_That, then," he said. "You reckon you used to have one exactly like that but they took it from you back in '45. When did you remember about it?"_

"'_Couple of years ago," America replied, touching the cross with his fingertips. "Bastards threw the thing in the fire right in front of me just before I was wiped. I was pissed, lemme tell you! Grant gave me this waaaaay back in the 1870s. It's made outta a bit of an old Union musket." He looked at England, still rubbing at the cross. "Do you remember it? It used to hang on the same chain as my dog tags in the war. You always used to be very careful with it even when you were being rough because you knew how much it meant to me. The whole thing, actually – you'd sit and be all 'I remember when I was Pagan' and talk about how your country went from being Catholic to Protestant and back and forth for centuries, so if it was all the same to me, you'd skip out on the church services they put on for the soldiers on a Sunday. You would wait for me, though." America grinned. "You'd call me a pious little prick but you'd wait all the same."_

_England shook his head._

"_I don't remember," he said. "I'm sorry. You know I don't."_

_America smiled._

"_Yeah," he replied gently, "I know. Thought I'd ask anyway. It was sweet of you."_

"_Don't try and distract me."_

"_I'm not!" America said incredulously. "Jeez, you can ask whatever you want! It's not like anyone can hear us down here."_

"_Then how the hell did you get your memory back?" England demanded. "Because to be honest, I'd rather like __**mine**__ back."_

_America sighed._

"_Look, it was just... kind of like how I was able to build all this. I'm pretty powerful, after all. I unearthed all my memories by overriding the lock on them." He shrugged. "Plus, I mean... I don't __**have**__ a whole lot of history so I guess they didn't bury it as deep." Looking at England helplessly, he added gently, "I... I don't think you're going to be able to get yours back as easily, babe."_

_England turned away from him._

"_I know that," he said bitterly. "I know." He gave an angry sigh of his own. "It's just that... oh, how could they do this to us, Alfred? I understand their theory – take away our memory of before when we were free to love and hate and whatever else and we won't ever know that freedom, we won't resent that we're basically prisoners now, but... my god, they're asking us to __**sacrifice**__ for things that we don't remember either!" He clenched his fists. "All Hall does is go on about how people died for me in that fucking war, how much they gave up to serve me and protect me, and that I should be prepared to do the same for them now – but I don't remember anything of what they did! If I could, perhaps I might feel differently, but all I have are his words to relay their bravery and it stirs nothing within me because I feel that I have never known it. They made a mistake, Alfred. They took away our love for our people. History is the only thing that ties us to those faceless masses who call themselves British or American or German or French and I can't remember anything of mine."_

"_Your history or your masses?"_

"_Both!" England closed his eyes in frustration as he felt America wrap his arms around his shoulders comfortingly. "I really... can't remember anything at all. All the monuments on my lands, the scars of battlefields and faultlines of old kingdoms... There are books and books and books on the history of Britain and it all means nothing to me. There are school children who know more about me than I do."_

"_I know about you," America purred in his ear. "Shall I regale you? It's not your whole history, just what I know, but it's something."_

_England shifted in America's arms, looking down at the glass of lemonade he was still clutching._

"_I suppose so," he muttered. "Though I'm sure you'll make half of it up."_

"_As if I would take such a liberty." _

_America laughed and reached down, taking England by the wrist and whirling him under his arm to face him as though they were dancing; England lost his grip on the glass and it slipped out of his fingers and shattered on the cobblestones. America didn't seem terribly perturbed, stepping on the glass to make it crunch merrily beneath his shoe as he pulled England off the path and right into the flowers._

"_Alfred, I just spent all morning pruning these!" England cried angrily, trying to avoid stepping on them as America dragged him along._

"_Don't you worry, I'll put 'em back the way I found 'em," America promised, leading England through their thick wilderness. "I'll put everything back the way it was in just a moment."_

"_Everything...?" England looked up and found that the house and the boundaries of the tiny, perfect garden were gone – and instead they were knee-deep in wildflowers and lush grass stretching as far as the eye could see. The air was fresher here, too, newer and gentler; there was no sign at all of human life, much less the frosted-gingerbread suburbs of the American Dream Factory—_

_But that high, clear, cornflower sky was the same as ever._

"_Where are we?" England asked, pulling his hand out of America's to step away from him._

"_The New World." America laughed again. "Well, not really – but sort of yes really too, I guess. These are my lands; and they looked like this once." He reached down and plucked up a bright yellow flower, tucking it into the knot of England's tie. "There you go – a Mayflower for you."_

_England frowned._

"_Mayflower?"_

"_That's the ship you came on," America explained. "You came before that, too, on a ship called the Susan Constant, but all you were looking for was gold and I was scared of you because you and your men ripped apart my land. I hid from you. But when you came again, you seemed... different. Kinder. So I showed myself to you. You wanted me but you had to fight off Francis and Antonio to get me. You won, obviously – so you got to keep me and raise me."_

"_I expect I was horrible at it."_

_America laughed._

"_Well, sometimes. Other times you were great. You used to tell the best stories and you always brought me presents from your travels and one time you made me these really awesome wooden soldiers! You always had to go away, though, because your empire was getting bigger and you always had so much work to do. That's what started causing the trouble, actually. You had that damn East India Company and so many imperial wars you couldn't pay for 'em all, so your government decided to start taxing everything it sent over here to the American colonies so it could get money to pay off its debts. Needless to say, my colonists weren't too happy about that so we all dressed up and went and chucked your expensive tea into Boston Harbor."_

"_I'm sure I didn't take too kindly to that," England said warily as America took his hand again and began to pull him._

"_Oh, man, you were pissed! We had a war over it!" America threw out his free arm, gesturing to their surroundings – the same lands, it seemed, but grey and wet and carved up, muddy and flooded with thickets of broken muskets and piles of dead men in red and blue. "Well, that and some other stuff... I don't remember half of it now but the point is that me and some other guys with wigs on all got together and decided we'd declare independence and make our own awesome country but you—well, more like your government was like 'Hell no! We need to tax you guys to pay for wars that have nothing to do with you!' so there was the American Revolution for like ten years, and here's the funny thing – you guys had way more men than us, more money, better equipment, better training, better organisation, the whole lot. You probably coulda won but for some reason you didn't seem all that into it so you pretty much gave up and let us be our own awesome country. I guess your government was just a bunch of cheapskates and the war was getting too expensive and that was kinda the problem in the first place so they decided to bail."_

_He kept tugging at England, making him walk through the imaginary battlefield, ankle-deep and higher still in mud. It had started to rain and England kept his head down, stalling and trying his hardest not to look, bumping into America's back when he stumbled. America glanced at him, smiling._

"_I guess this doesn't ring any bells, huh?" he said gently. "You look like you're gonna be sick. This really used to not bother you, you know. I suppose you just got used to wars and how they looked."_

"_All these dead men over some tea?" England asked flatly, looking up at him. The rain wasn't making them wet. "Really?"_

"_Tea and some other stuff. Don't sweat it, Artie. It's long in the past now." America squeezed his hand. "So, anyway, about you – there you are, one colony down, though you've already long since pinched Matthew from Francis. You're not going to let a military and financial humiliation like losing the American Revolution to a bunch of upstart colonists stop you going global! There's the War of 1812 next – my bad, admittedly. Thought I'd invade Matthew's land and steal it but you were all up in my face with your bayonet telling me to lay off him. I didn't so you burnt down my White House, which was kind of a dick move. The whole thing kind of ends up a draw and I guess you decide that you're sick of dealing with me so you leave me to it, pretty much ignoring me while I have this whole Civil War thing that really could have gone better. You're stabler and richer and savvier than me and you decide it's time for The British Empire: Take Two!"_

_America gave him an extra-sharp little tug and suddenly they were on cobblestones. England finally looked up properly, glancing around as America briskly hurried him along the narrow street lined either side with small, glass-fronted shops selling flowers and bread and leather and cloth and books._

"_You start expanding again, you see, and it pays off. You get rich as hell because you're the hub of international trading, with ports all over the world to bring in the dough; and you develop your navy and pour all this money into it and suddenly you're the wealthiest, most powerful nation in the world." _

_They rounded a corner and plunged into very heart of London, bursting with a crowd of beautiful ladies, rich and poor alike, in long dresses and lace bonnets, and gentlemen of all walks of life in waistcoats and hats; carriages and dogcarts pulled by horses in gleaming brass with children running amongst them clutching dolls and toys and sweets. They were draining, all of them, towards a huge, gleaming structure of cast iron and glass, brilliant and imposing against London's low, drab skyline like a perfect diamond._

"_Welcome to the Victorian Era," America said smugly, putting his free hand on his hip. He stole a glance at England, who was looking up at the building in utter awe. "And welcome to the Great Exhibition of 1951 – Great Britain's stab at a world's fair. People from all over the globe will come to this event to marvel at the inventions of the Industrial Revolution. This is a proud moment in your history, Arthur. These are your people – and they've all come to worship you."_

_England looked at him briefly._

"_You're awfully knowledgeable about this," he noted._

"_Well, yeah! I came to this thing! You weren't exactly Mr Nice Guy to me, I guess you were still kind of ticked off, but it was pretty cool all the same. I was seriously impressed. Enough to have my own forty years later, even!" America started to pull at him again. "Anyway, we have to move on. There's more to this story. You're practically king of the fucking world for like sixty years but of course it all has to come crashing down sooner or later. The Industrial Revolution, the thing that made you so rich in the first place, proves to be your undoing. The advances in technology change the way war is fought, you see, and you used to have this strategic and naval advantage but it's not gonna be the case for much longer with the way stuff is starting to look. And things in Europe have been getting a bit hostile recently – Ludwig's leaders are all getting a bit antsy, they look at you and Francis and Antonio and Ivan and they think that it's pretty unfair that they've never had that kind of power or wealth or land. They want an empire like yours, Arthur, and Ludwig doesn't have much of a say in the matter either way. Everyone starts taking sides and it's obvious that there's gonna be a war."_

_America ducked down another alleyway and England, still looking longingly at the Crystal Palace, practically fell down the cobblestone steps after him. America caught him but England lay limp in his arms for a moment, breathing in the air. It wasn't the stale, cloistered air of London. It smelt different, metallic, smoky. When he straightened, he wasn't looking at walls made out of sooty brick anymore but instead at steep and uneven inclines of earth – long, narrow tunnels of damp, packed soil with no roof and only a frill of barbed wire for decoration. The staccato song of gunfire haunted the distant air, tumbling over the top and congealing at the bottom of the trench alongside frozen, huddled men._

"_Anything could have caused it," America explained blandly, easily picking his way through the debris of shattered crates and dented helmets and spent shells. "It was so hostile, so lethal, even a causal insult could have ignited it. As it happens, some guys from one country shooting some guy from some other country means Belgium will wind up getting invaded through some long chain reaction and you're kinda pally with Belle so you and Francis club together and start beating up on Ludwig as best you can and then Roderich and Elizaveta and Ivan and just about fucking __**everyone**__ starts joining in. It's 1914 and the First World War – or the Great War, as they call it then – has started."_

_They stopped at a ladder and America looked at England with a sad smile._

"_And it's awful, you know," he said wistfully. "It's really awful. War is always awful but it's never been like this. Everyone has all these new weapons and machines and all these young men are just being sent out to be hacked to pieces by machine gun fire and they just... just keep sending them over the top, over the top, over the top..." He let go of England's hand and hopped onto the ladder, beckoning. "Come on. Let's get outta here. The trenches are supposed to be the safe place but they're not really any better. Men die of disease and starvation and the cold – or they get shell-shock and go mad and can't cope with it anymore so they run and then... well, then their own generals have them shot for cowardice." He started up the ladder. "The war to end all wars, they called it. They sold it to us Yankees like that – even though it had been so appalling for three years, they still sold it to us like it was a good thing." He shook his head. "Fuck, Arthur, be glad you can't remember this, of all things. I can't even describe it."_

_America hauled himself over the edge and reached back to England, taking his wrist and practically lifting him the rest of the way up the ladder. They scrambled through a gap in the barbed wire and England held his breath, terrified of what he'd see._

_They were wading through a sea of sensuous scarlet, a field of wild and ragged poppies which sank and flowed with the breeze – the comb-over carpet desperately covering the guilty carnage beneath. This had been No Man's Land once but England had seen it only in black-and-white photographs, grainy and battered in books, and never so vividly, that old and dreadful sin transformed into a sleepy, silent offering to the Great War's dead._

_It was stunning but still terribly, terribly sad._

_America was quiet now, pausing; he held open his hand and England hesitated before slipping his own back into it, following America's gaze upwards. The sky was grey with feathery touches of orange and pink at its hem, completely empty and oppressively silent._

"_On the eleventh of November, 1918, the guns finally stopped," America said. "And you know what? That was the easy part. The peace came at a terrible price, paid in the blood of an entire generation the world over. And it didn't stop there. Somebody had to take the blame for it, right? And it couldn't be the Allies because, hell, we won the war, we were the good guys. But someone was gonna get punished and you... jeez, you were pissed off, Arthur. The damage this thing did to your empire was pretty much irreparable. So between you having your imperial glory stuffed through the shredder and poor old Francis and Belle having their __**lands**__ put through it, too, there was blood money to be had and Ludwig was gonna pay for it."_

"_You're making me sound awful," England said blandly, looking down at the poppies clustered thickly around his knees. "Vengeful and selfish and greedy."_

"_You __**were**__ all of those things, sweetheart." America turned towards him and touched his face, rubbing his thumb gently across his cheek. "Not gonna lie, you were a self-serving dick once upon a time. Probably still __**are**__ underneath all that repressed personality."_

"_Charming, I'm sure," England bit out._

"_Nah." America grinned and put his hand over England's eyes, blindfolding him in order to lead him on a few paces. "__**You're **__the charming one, Mr Invincible British Gentleman. It's the Roaring Twenties now and you and Francis are bankrupting Ludwig between you, so you feel it's time to start going all affluent again, see if you can start building that good old British Empire Spirit back up. You and I are getting kinda friendly again at this point over mutual bitching-out-Ivan-for-bailing-in-1917 and everything's just one wild crazy party."_

_America lifted his hand away with a flourish to reveal their newest conjured location: a glossy, glittering club filled to the brim with ladies in short dresses and feathers in their hair and men in fitted suits, all stripes and sharp angles. The drinks poured fast and plentiful in a plethora of bright chemical colours and the music swelled in every empty space._

"_I mean, the war's over, right, and everyone just wants to let loose," America explained lightly, leading England through the glitzy crowd to the bar. "I guess my guys start letting a little __**too**__ loose because come 1920, alcohol gets banned in the States and to be honest it makes the problem worse instead of better, but hey, what did I care right then? I was over here with you getting blitzed off my ass and you, you're a fuckin' __**pro**__ at getting blitzed off __**your**__ ass and we have a lot of gross sloppy drunken sex in expensive hotel rooms and it's awesome and everyone's havin' a grand old time and it's like the war never even happened!"_

_America leaned over the bar and seemed to lift their drinks out of nowhere, two shallow glasses with an opal-tinted potent persuasion tumbling over the rocks. He handed England his and clinked their glasses together; England holding his between his palms and not terribly interested in it._

"_Uh, unfortunately..." America frowned, sipping at his drink. "Well, yeah, everyone's having a grand old time except the Germans, but we'll come back to them later; and the fact that everyone __**else**__ is having a grand old time means no-one thinks the grand old time is gonna stop, not even the experts, so no-one is prepared at all for 1929 when suddenly poof! no money! They call it the Great Depression and that's a damn good name for it because no-one's happy about it, lemme tell you. You go back to being a conniving little bitch and I suddenly have dust all over my... bowl, I guess, so we go our separate ways for a while and there are no more wild crazy parties where everyone has a grand old time, especially not in that wild crazy party they call the Nazi Party." _

_America leaned against the bar, swilling his drink back and forth, and looked up at the ceiling; frowning, England turned his back on the party gradually grinding down behind them, giving America his fullest attention._

"_See, you and Francis, let's be honest, fucked Ludwig over with the Treaty of Versailles," America said conversationally. "He has to pay reparations, he's not allowed a military, the Weimar Republic isn't working out so hot for him and he's been utterly humiliated. I mean, you don't care, you're still licking your own wounds – but that's the problem. Nobody pays any attention to Germany and the hotbed of resentment it becomes. The leaders, the people and Ludwig himself, they're so damned angry and they feel so weak that all it takes is one Austrian nutjob with a Charlie Chaplin moustache telling them he'll make them great again for them to all fall into the deathtrap that becomes Nazi Germany. I reckon Ludwig realised what that guy was capable of pretty early on but the loon was the fuckin' chancellor by 1933 and with all his people supporting the Nazi Party, there wasn't much he could do. Back on this side of the Channel, your boy Churchill is harping on to anyone who'll listen, including __**my**__ boss, that there's gonna be another war, not that anyone's paying him much heed – but here's something interesting. Now you and Ludwig actually go back a little bit, Artie: your royal families are intertwined and you were pretty good friends before the Great War and to be honest, although you're not exactly Number One in his books right now, he doesn't actually hate you. And Hitler, well, I guess he sees it from a military perspective as much as he does a Prussian-and-British-Empire fanboy one. Neither one of 'em, for different reasons, really wants to go to war with you so they offer you a deal – you and your government mind your own business and they won't touch anything left of your empire, nor will they engage you in warfare. Sounds like a pretty fair arrangement – but of course you don't take it 'cause I guess you'd rather punch Ludwig in his poverty-stricken Aryan face. The sheer __**audacity**__ of him offering you a peace treaty is enough to make you run straight to Francis to knock together another blood-pact to beat up Ludwig if he invades X-country. The country in favour this time is Poland and you guys promise Feliks you'll declare war if Ludwig so much as bats his eyelashes in his direction. Fortunately for you and your bloodlust, Ludwig pals up with Ivan and does a whole lot worse than that and the Second World War begins!" America grinned. "How exciting!" _

_He slammed his drink down on the bar, took England's from him and did the same and then turned him around by the shoulders. The party, it seemed, was yet ongoing – but the people looked different, all the men in uniform and half the women, too, less interested in drink and more interested in dancing to the swing band set up in the corner. There was a real flare of familiarity about this, England felt, a prickling sense of nostalgia as America put his arm about him to lead him through the crowd. He almost remembered them being in those wool uniforms, almost recalled what it was like to come to these underground places and try and forget the horrors of what was going on outside their fragile walls. _

"_This war is different again," America went on. "Both sides really use air warfare to their advantage now and the war is fought everywhere, not just on the field and in the trenches. Nobody is safe anymore."_

_Out of the pub and into the street; London laid to ruin, rubble and glass littering the pavement with the smoking, twisted framework of bombed-out buildings the only sky-high skeletal remains. The street was empty but the echo of their footsteps was buried beneath the wail of the air raid siren and the occasional overhead roar of an RAF fighter._

"_This ain't even the worst this war will see," America said, helping England over the warped corpse of a car. "Whole areas of Poland, Ukraine, Russia get completely desecrated, you and I burn Dresden to the fucking ground and my god, you don't even wanna __**know**__ what Kiku did to Yao. You got Feliciano's guys chopping and changing sides all over the place but Feliciano himself cowers behind Ludwig until there's nothing to cower behind anymore. And __**Ludwig's**__ guys, well... they start off doing pretty well for themselves, taking just about everything they can get their hands on, but they get all the way to France and you manage to get Francis and De Gaulle outta there before they stick a Swastika on the Eiffel Tower and it looks like after that all those Nazis have to do is take Britain but Arthur Kirkland's not going down without a fight, no sir! You kick his Luftwaffe all the way back to Berlin and then they all start panicking and think that if they can't have you, they'll have Ivan instead." America actually laughed. "Well, that was a mistake and half, lemme tell you. Ivan's on our side now – and I say __**our**__ side because Kiku also makes a mean motherfucker of a mistake and bombs __**my**__ naval base at Pearl Harbor. The Awesome Allied Powers are fully-formed and the war begins to go pretty badly for the Axis!"_

_The ground under their feet seemed to sink now, every step accompanied by a soft, serene little splash; and a glance downwards informed England that they were now on a beach, treading along the shallow shoreline. The sand was pale silver beneath the light of early morning, riddled with bullet holes like old lace, overturned by the tracks of Jeep tyres and scattered with dead soldiers as though they were common cockle shells._

"_The tide turns, if you'll excuse the pun, on June 6__th__, 1944." America didn't look back, pulling England insistently along the beach. "D-Day – you, Matthew and I go in through France while Ivan and Yao push the other way. It takes almost a year but we push 'em back and back and back and suddenly there's nowhere left to run. Hitler decides he doesn't wanna be hung in the streets like Mussolini was and kills himself and the war in Europe ends. All the ugly starts coming out then. There are these death camps and it's just... well, again, be glad you can't remember it. When we went into them..." He exhaled and then shook his head. "That war turned people into such monsters, it's not hard to see why the humans want to prevent it from happening again. Afterwards, you know, when we all saw what had been going on in there, Ludwig started crying. Half of them were his own people, after all."_

_A crimson stain began to bleed along the horizon, whispering over the grey waters, and America eventually stopped, England bumping into his back. The red flare glossed over his glasses._

"_The worst is still to come, though," he said quietly. "Because Kiku won't surrender—"_

"_Yes, I know what happens!" England finally interjected; and as though breaking free of the spell America had had him under, he tore his hand loose and turned away as the mushroom cloud bloomed in the sky like a hideous flower. "You said this was __**my**__ history, Alfred – and that had nothing to do with me."_

"_The hell it didn't," America replied coolly. "A lot of your guys worked on it and you yourself signed the agreement to end the war the way we did. I can't spare you your share of the blame simply outta the goodness of my heart, Arthur."_

_England said nothing._

"_Well," America sighed behind him, "I guess that's kind of it. Kiku and his government surrender, the war ends with the good guys the victors and your empire is completely fucked – not that it matters all that much to you because two months later they wipe your memory just like they do everyone else's."_

_The beach faded at long last and they were back in the garden under that blue sky, pulled in protectively by their white picket fence. England still had the yellow Mayflower in his tie and plucked it out, twirling it this way and that in a bid to not meet America's gaze._

"_Huh, well, it doesn't look like my little whistle-stop tour did much to make you warm up to your people," America noted. "You probably dislike 'em more than ever now, seeing just what people can do to each other. It'd be nice if it was just the two of us, huh?"_

_He leaned in, kissed England on the cheek and walked away towards the house._

"_You said that was my history," England said again suddenly, watching him go. "But it was barely any of it, really – even __**I**__ know that – and it all had something or other to do with you!"_

"_Well, yeah," America replied, blinking at him incredulously. "This is the American Dream, Arthur – and even it if wasn't, that's what happened after the war. The moral of the story is that you aren't the powerful one anymore, sweetheart. Now everything that exists is in relation to me."_

* * *

><p>"<em>I've worked it all out!" <em>

_America's voice chimed from the kitchen doorway and England, standing at the grill, glanced at him over his shoulder in puzzlement._

"_You've worked what out?" he asked, frowning. America was dressed in a full suit, excellent cut and charcoal finish, with his hair neatly combed._

"_What jobs we'll have down here, of course!" America chirped in reply, tightening the knot of his blue tie as he crossed to the table – and for the first time, England noticed that the typewriter from the study upstairs was tucked under his arm. "This is the American Dream, Arthur! Someone has to go out and win bread!"_

"_Alfred, this entire world is a figment of your imagination," England said blandly, looking back to his burning eggs and jabbing at them with a fork. "Surely there is no bread to win – or bills to pay with it, for that matter."_

"_Just humour me," America insisted, putting the typewriter down on the table. "This is what the American Dream runs on. We can't just languish about the house all day, we'd be doing it all wrong. You can't live an ideal if you're not living it ideally." Sitting down, he tapped the typewriter. "To be fair, you've already practically turned into a housewife without any nudging – but I think you'll go mad if you just slide into that role and don't do anything else. So I've decided that you'll be a bestselling author! You like books and stuff, right? Between your cooking and cleaning duties, you can write a shrewd, observant, slightly-ironic moral tale of day-to-day life. Pick apart this perfect world and lay bare its flaws for all the world to see and in years to come, they'll hail your sharp-witted novel as a classic of the era, the one truthful voice of an oppressive post-war decade, a daring exposé of the pampered, humdrum existence of the modern suburban housewife – that lucky, lucky girl with her rich, handsome, breadwinning husband who came back a triumphant hero from the war."_

"_And what are __**you**__ going to do?" England asked coldly, peeling his cauterised eggs off the bottom of the pan._

"_Be a district attorney, of course!" America announced. "Dealing out justice to the wicked, being a hero, that sort of stuff!"_

"_How unrealistic. You should have an office job." England smirked. "Be a salesman or something and die a death chasing your dreams."_

_America gave a snort._

"_That's pretty boring," he said. He pushed aside the typewriter to reach for the coffeepot. "You're not gonna write a very good book with an imagination like that."_

"_Oh, of course not," England replied smoothly, bringing breakfast to the table and sitting opposite America. "I suppose I'd need an imagination as vast as yours. If you can make up a whole world, I'm sure you can make up a book. On that note, why don't __**you**__ be the bestselling author and __**I'll**__ be the run-of-the-mill breadwinner? It won't exactly matter what job I do since there's no economy here and we've nothing to pay for."_

"_Tch, you gotta start thinking about this in long-term... uh, terms," America said dismissively, beginning to pile helpings of England's extravagant but poorly-executed breakfast banquet onto his plate. "We're gonna have a whole __**life**__ down here, Artie. I told you – Christmas is on the cards, naturally, and I'm just gonna keep figuring out how to keep us down here for longer and longer. Maybe I can eventually completely sever this level of our consciousness from the one we use in reality and we can stay down here all the time and our physical bodies can just get on with it. I mean, that's all they want us for anyway – economy-calculating automatons. I don't really see what the problem would be. They'd probably __**prefer**__ it if we never talked back."_

"_Alfred—"_

"_Look, this isn't just for you and me, right?" America went on excitedly. "When I get this whole thing stable enough, I plan on bringing __**everyone**__ down here! We'll all just live here and everyone can be with whoever they want and we'll have our own little suburban community! It'll be great!"_

_He looked at England, his blue eyes very deep and wide._

"_Because I'm so sick of this, you know?" he said quietly. "I'm so sick of everyone having to hide. I'm so sick of... of the fear, of the consequences—"_

"_Well, it's rather too late for some, no matter your good intentions," England interjected coolly. "Antonio, of course, and Feliciano, not... not to mention Ludwig..." He looked around the pretty, perfect kitchen. "How is this fair, Alfred? They were punished and we... we have matching furniture."_

"_Arthur, I couldn't save everyone." America looked at him desperately. "Maybe I still can't – but I'm gonna try, okay?" He gave a weak smile. "Please believe me that I'll do my best."_

_England sighed, picking at his food._

"_I know you will, love," he said softly. "And you're good to even think of it. You __**are,**__ Alfred – you're a kind, selfless person. But it isn't fair. It isn't fair that it's like this."_

_America watched him for a moment over his coffee._

"_You're very different now, you know," he said at length, making England look up guardedly from his eggs. "Than you were before you had your memory erased, I mean. You were arrogant then – and aggressive and pretty high-and-mighty and stuck-up and selfish. You'd never have sympathised with anyone like that – or said it was unfair that your circumstances were better than someone else's. I mean, don't get me wrong, you had morality and I guess deep-down you were a good guy and all; you didn't have to go to war to protect Feliks, you could have told him to get stuffed and taken the bargain you were offered instead, but you didn't. You chose to fight for his freedom and I gotta figure your heart had to be somewhere near the right place in order for you to do that. But for you, the world didn't seem to work in terms of "fair" and "unfair". It seemed like you felt that anyone whose position was poor simply wasn't willing to fight their way out of it. It was pretty weird – you were a good person but you didn't have any compassion."_

_England arched an eyebrow, putting down his fork._

"_And what about you?" he inquired lightly. "Have you changed too?"_

_America frowned and looked up at the ceiling._

"_Huh," he said at length, shrugging. "I guess so. Maybe I'm not quite as optimistic... or well, __**confident**__ in my heroic abilities. I've seen a lot to convince me otherwise, haha."_

"_Do elaborate."_

"_Well... Right now I just said that I'd try my best to save everyone." America gave a sheepish little grin. "Back in the war I wouldn't have said that I'd try anything. I would have just said that I'd __**do**__ it."_

"_I see." England smiled. "Well, you've done all this, so I suppose that has to count for something. It's more freedom than I could ever have hoped for – and striving for freedom does seem to be what you do best."_

_America's grin broadened._

"_You think so?"_

_England nodded, reaching for his teacup. America saw him doing it and snatched up his coffee, raising it into the air._

"_Swell," he said, beaming. "Then I propose a toast. In the name of freedom, to Ludwig and Feliciano and Antonio."_

_England gave him a wan but real smile and lifted his cup to America's, clinking their matching porcelain edges together._

"_And in the name of freedom," he added quietly, "to us."_

* * *

><p>It was both notable and noticeable that South Italy had not looked up once so far, chasing his food around his plate uninterestedly despite scoldings from his handler. Though of a dour sensibility to begin with, he looked downright and undeniably miserable, wilting beneath the weight of himself. He did not spare Spain a single glance but the very pinpoint of his pain was obvious.<p>

There were eleven nations at this table, interspersed by their attendants to make the full sum of twenty-two; North and South Italy, Spain, France, Austria, Germany, Hungary, Belgium, Portugal, Holland and England to make up the representation of the utmost Western edge of Europe. This was commonly the case at meals, the handlers finding it easier to keep track of everyone by arranging them into mostly-geographical groups: Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Scandinavia, Asia, Middle East, etc, although there were exceptions. China didn't sit with the rest of Asia, instead being grouped politically with Cuba, Russia and the rest of the Soviet Union, whilst the general scattered locations of former European colonies saw Australia, Seychelles and New Zealand seated with America, Canada and Mexico.

The meals were a mere regimental necessity, a formality to give the world meetings a greater sense of friendliness about them, usually taking place in the hotel's restaurant. Nations were free to talk amongst those in their geographical group but not to call or speak to anyone else from another table, and while they were permitted to choose their own meals, alcohol was strictly prohibited. Work went on as usual, of course, with handlers keeping an eye on their hand-held calculators – and all too often nations were required to leave their food in favour of returning to their room for yet another attempt at controlling the economy.

Unlike South Italy, America was (understandably, perhaps) very hungry and was eating as quickly as he could, obviously in cringing anticipation of being made to throw down his fork and direct his appetite elsewhere; England watched him out of the corner of his eye as he ate his own meal, wondering what exactly he was plotting—

Working on. He was working on something, allegedly. Something which he seemed terribly confident that England would love.

(_Just don't do anything stupid._ It was all he could think. America was so powerful, so capable, that he was dangerous – not because he was aggressive but simply because he was barely contained by the imposing restrictions of the world order and seemed to crave freedom more than any of them. It was enough that he barely had the condom on before he was hijacking England's consciousness and spiriting it away to an empty replica room; England appreciated that small effort and hoped that America knew he did. He didn't want America to put himself at risk for the sake of impressing him. _Look what they did to Antonio. Please, please don't do anything stupid, Alfred._)

North Italy was happily chattering to Belgium (who, sitting opposite, was nodding politely at his every word) when his attendant, a dark-haired man named Moretti, suddenly looked down at his hand-held device and frowned at it for a moment before addressing his charge in Italian. South Italy, too, looked up ever-so-briefly before dipping his head again.

For North Italy's sake, England found himself hoping that the match wasn't with Germany. It was a known fact that Italy was rather... _affectionate_ when it came to economic couplings with the German representative and after what had happened to Spain... well, perhaps it would be better if the two of them were kept separate for as long as possible. Like England with America, Italy had had a relationship with Germany throughout the Second World War – and, like America, seemed to remember much more of it than he should. Coupled with his obliviousness of the danger he was in by showing favouritism towards Germany, often touching him "inappropriately", it was safe to say that Italy was on extremely thin ice and would probably be the next to have his personality completely wiped if he wasn't careful.

But then Hall glanced at his own calculator and looked up to meet Moretti's gaze. Moretti nodded and stood, clearing his throat and putting a hand on Italy's shoulder to make him shut up.

"Northern Italy and Great Britain, 11.6 match," he said.

England groaned inwardly. Better him than Germany, perhaps – but he was barely halfway through his meal and he was hungry and they would probably have taken it away by the time he came back. Besides, Italy was a nuisance, constantly having to be repositioned by Moretti because he tended to flail about during the act; he had once fallen off France completely, in fact, and then wailed for half an hour because he had hit his head, not to mention the scratch-marks he'd given Austria, the bruise he'd given China by accidentally kicking him and the not-so-accidental bitemark he'd left on Germany's wrist. America had groused that Italy tended to seize whatever he could, too, which England could agree with since Italy had once grabbed his hair and it had hurt like a bitch.

He deliberately speared another piece of steak and put it in his mouth, trying his best to savour it even as Hall gave an impatient cough and rose, jostling his elbow. Italy was naturally putting up more of a fuss, whining in Italian about wanting to finish his pasta, a plight towards which Moretti seemed to have little sympathy. Lamentably finishing his mouthful, England stood and folded his napkin, pushing in his chair, and waited; Italy, on the contrary, seemed extremely reluctant to leave his meal and clung to the tablecloth when Moretti began to wrestle with him, squirming and making life difficult for him. Both Austria and his attendant appeared disgusted by the display and looked fixedly down at their food.

Clearly embarrassed, Moretti looked up at Hall as he struggled with his charge.

"Signor Hall, I apologise," he said. "Feliciano, you will come at once!"

"I want to finish my pasta!" Italy wailed; he looked desperately at Germany as Moretti managed to disentangle him from the tablecloth. "Ludwig, help me!"

Germany looked up at him sharply, his pale face positively white; Dreher, who looked furious, was on the verge of answering for him when South Italy suddenly stood up and slammed his hands down on the table.

"Feliciano, do as you are told!" he shouted angrily.

There was silence in the wake of this outburst. Even South Italy's attendant didn't seem to know what to say, gaping as South Italy himself sank abruptly back into his seat, red-faced, and returned to stabbing ferociously and unproductively at his meal. North Italy went limp, stunned, and simply stared at his brother as Moretti finally managed to steer him away from his seat.

Spain gave a sudden smile, tilting his head at South Italy.

"You have fire in you, little one," he purred delightedly. "It is interesting to see."

"Be quiet, Alonso," García bit out. Spain simply blinked, looking curiously at France (who was shaking his head at him, his mouth a tight little line).

South Italy dipped his head, his shoulders shuddering. He did not make a sound, however.

"_Fratello_," England heard Italy murmur forlornly as they were hustled away from the Western Europe table.

America was leaning over the back of his chair as they passed the mismatched table of former colonies, chewing on a toothpick.

"What the hell's goin' on over there?" he inquired, arching his eyebrows as he addressed the question towards England.

"Alfred, mind your own business," Clark said dryly.

"Yes, _do_ mind your own business," Hall repeated, eying America in distaste; he steered England deliberately away from him. "This is between Arthur and Feliciano. It has nothing to do with your bleeding Lend-Lease."

America shrugged.

"Couldn't care less about the Lend-Lease," he said breezily. "Don't even remember what that is."

"Shut your damn pie-hole, Alfred," Clark snapped, taking America's tie and forcing him upright again. America simply laughed obnoxiously and leaned across to talk to Canada instead.

England kept his head down; but, just as they were leaving the hotel's restaurant, he allowed his gaze to flicker up briefly over the top of Italy's head. His eyes met America's, who was watching him whilst pretending to have a conversation with his hapless twin.

America winked at him, smiling, before looking properly at Canada again. England too averted his gaze, glancing worriedly at Hall through his eyelashes – but, to his relief, Hall was engaged in discussing something with Moretti and not paying him much heed. Italy shuffled along next to him, looking thoroughly miserable.

They went to Italy's hotel room and went through all the motions; the door was locked, position was briefly discussed in a methodical fashion, condom and lubricant were handed out, calculators were checked to ensure that the coupling was still beneficial. Italy, the receiving party, was told to prepare himself, Moretti watching him like a hawk the entire time (which led England to conclude, as he had before, that Italy was prone to fantasising certain things – or certain _someones_ – that he shouldn't be at these times). Of course, it was understandable why he did it, and truthfully England did allow his own thoughts to stray towards America when needed to get hard – like now, because truthfully he just didn't find Italy all that appealing and it was clearly mutual – but Italy was stupid about these things and sometimes said Germany's name.

Italy lay limp like a ragdoll on the bed, not helping at all when England tried to move into position over him; he simply squeezed his eyes shut and didn't even lift his hips. England, who wasn't allowed to touch him, exhaled impatiently and looked at Moretti.

"I can't enter him," he said wearily. Moretti grumbled to himself in Italian before coming to the bed, taking Italy's open belt and forcing him to raise his hips, bracing him so that England could push into him.

Italy gave a grunt and a sharp exhale, squeezing his eyes even tighter. He whined as England started to move.

"Am I hurting you, Feliciano?" England asked impatiently, stopping again.

Moretti headed Italy off, snorting.

"Ignore him, Arthur," he said curtly. "He is always like this with anyone who is not Ludwig, as you know. Keep going – it need not take long if you hurry."

England looked down at Italy, who had his face scrunched in clear discomfort. Exhaling, England moved again, shunting forwards, and Italy shuddered, grabbing at the sheets.

"It hurts," he whimpered.

"Feliciano, I have had enough of this!" Moretti said angrily. "Just be quiet. It is unfortunate that it is uncomfortable, I am afraid, but you never seem to have this problem when it is Signor Ludwig."

Italy actually opened his big amber eyes, looking up at England pleadingly. England looked away, disgusted that he was inside him, practically raping him – and wasn't that the case across the board? Italy didn't want to have sex with anyone but Germany, that much was clear; and England didn't want to have sex with anyone but America. He _certainly_ didn't want to be balls-deep in Italy any more than Italy wanted to lie there and take it.

"I'm hurting him," England said, starting to pull back. "As much as this may be necessary for the economy, there seems to be little point in it if it is causing him pain—"

"Then switch positions!" Hall burst out angrily. "For God's sake, we don't have time for this!"

He took England by the shoulder, pulling him away from Italy as Moretti moved in and lifted Italy beneath his back, making him sit up.

"Feliciano can ride," Hall went on briskly. "Fonteneau and I took this arrangement earlier with Arthur and Francis and it worked well." He nudged England towards the mattress. "Go on, lie down on your back. I'll help Moretti with Feliciano."

Despite his moral qualms and own desires, England knew he didn't really have much of a choice; there were no options in this practice. You either complied or you were forced – the latter of which was apparently about to happen to Italy. England had actually been in Italy's (literal) position himself, being lifted and forcibly impaled on Russia (who had apologised in his silvery voice and looked rather embarrassed that he was too big for half of the people he was made to couple with, England included). It was an unpleasant thing to be on the receiving end of and England wished sincerely that Italy had just been able to suck it up in the previous position.

He lay back with his legs a little open and his hands clasped tightly across his stomach, watching Moretti grapple with Italy; judging by the way he was flailing, England was under the impression that he himself would be lucky to come out of this without a black eye. Italy wasn't even speaking English anymore, screeching in Italian as he struggled. Hall came to help and together he and Moretti physically lifted Italy under his thighs, hefting his small form up to position him over England—

Italy suddenly gave a remarkable twist of his body and managed to get out of their grasp, tumbling off the bed in a sprawl of limbs. England sat up as Italy righted himself, secretly rather impressed, and watched him back up into the corner, looking like he was on the verge of tears.

"I want to be with Ludwig!" he said fervently, huddling as Moretti, red in the face, advanced on him. "Why is that so wrong?"

"Because this is not about what _you_ want!" Moretti exploded, seizing Italy by his collar and shaking him. "You should know better than anyone that hanging off Ludwig's shirt-tails is not good for the Italian people! That war brought us to our knees! There is no money, Feliciano, and so this is what we must do if we want Italy to be even worth spitting at!"

He tried to drag Italy towards the bed again but Italy resisted, kicking at Moretti and getting away once more. He had gone back to Italian, wailing as though he was dying, but England could hear 'Ludwig' in there, the name vibrating beneath the passion in Italy's rich accent.

Hall kneaded his forehead and flapped his hand irritably at England.

"This obviously isn't going anywhere," he said icily. "You may as well get yourself presentable again, Arthur."

Moretti wheeled, clasping his hands together beseechingly as he looked at Hall.

"Signor Hall, my deepest apologies," he gabbled. "I sincerely hope that this will not affect the bond between our nations!" He glared at Italy, who had sunk into the corner, curled up as small as he could. "It would seem simply that we have a glitch."

"When the glitch is dealt with," Hall replied smoothly, "I am sure we can continue economic liaisons as normal. In the meantime, I'll telephone the Inland Revenue and have them input the data manually."

Moretti nodded.

"I shall do the same. Are you returning to the restaurant?"

"We will be, yes."

"Then," Moretti said, "if you would be so kind as to ask Dreher for a moment of his time. This has admittedly been an ongoing problem for some time now and I feel that we should get it straightened out. If you would be so kind as to tell him that I will meet him in the lobby's bar. He should bring Ludwig, of course."

"Of course, it would be my pleasure." Hall put out his hand and shook with Moretti. "I hope that you will be able to deal with the issue swiftly, Mr Moretti."

"That is my hope too, Signor Hall."

Hall gave a brisk nod and took England by the shoulder, ushering him out. England glanced over his shoulder, taking one last look at Italy, who miserably met his gaze before looking away again.

"Don't you go getting any bleeding ideas, Arthur," Hall said acidly, pulling the door behind them. "That behaviour just isn't on at all and you know it. Pull anything like that and I'll—"

"I'm merely surprised, is all," England interrupted mildly. "Of all people, I never thought _North_ _Italy_ would stand up for himself like that."

Hall gave an ugly snort.

"Call that standing up for yourself, eh?" he taunted. "I call it being a pain in the arse. Ungrateful bastards, the whole bloody lot of you..."

England was disappointed but not terribly surprised to find that his meal was gone when they got back to the restaurant; France actually looked rather apologetic and leaned across the table towards him.

"I tried to tell them that you were not done but they ignored me, of course," he drawled.

"It's alright," England sighed. "Thanks anyway, Francis." He glanced at Hall, who was muttering into Dreher's ear; France followed his gaze.

"Trouble in Paradise?" he inquired. "Where is dear Feliciano?"

"There was, ah, a bit of an issue," England replied in a low voice. "Of the 'I'm-not-Ludwig' variety."

France frowned; Austria, who had overheard, sighed into his napkin.

"Feliciano is an idiot," he muttered. "He is going to get them both into trouble."

"I think he already has," France said, nodding towards Dreher – who was getting up and dragging Ludwig with him.

South Italy looked up, watching Ludwig and his attendant leave – then looked at the two empty spaces of North Italy and Moretti.

"Where is Feliciano?" he demanded. He looked angrily at England. "You! Eyebrow-Bastard! What did you do?"

South Italy's attendant bit something out in angry Italian and South Italy clenched his fists but said nothing more.

"I didn't do anything," England replied as Hall came back and sat down next to him. "Literally. Feliciano wouldn't let me."

"Arthur, that is quite enough," Hall said. "I don't want you going hungry, by the by. We'll get you a dessert."

"I don't want a bloody dessert."

"Well, now you're just being grouchy and obtuse because you're hungry."

"Whose fault is it that I'm hungry?"

"Arthur, I'm not having this discussion with you," Hall said dangerously. He pushed the menu at him. "Either pick something and eat it or don't pick something and go hungry. I shan't be fetching you anything later."

England snatched up the menu and scanned down it irritably. He actually _didn't_ want a dessert, he wasn't in the mood for anything sweet or sticky, especially not when he'd been enjoying his meal and wanted to finish it even though the option to clearly wasn't available – and worse still that he'd been dragged away from it for some pathetic excursion with Italy that hadn't had any benefit whatsoever. It really was quite a small issue, perhaps not worth getting angry about, but nonetheless it was tiresome the way they were treated like toddlers. Once upon a time, surely, a meal like this would have taken place without the extra presence of paid, serious attendants and the nations could talk about whatever they liked, sit by whoever they pleased, order what they wanted and have it accompanied by perhaps a glass of wine or a beer or even champagne; and eat at their own pace, too, talking and laughing between bites without worrying that they might be made to get up and leave at any moment, and then afterwards, if they _wanted_, they could order dessert – and after _that_ retire to the bar in the lobby for a final drink, maybe brandy, and a cigarette—

Just _looking_ at the fucking dessert menu was enough to make him fed up. He closed it and put it down decisively, observing that France was watching him with interest.

"I don't want anything." England pushed the menu back at Hall.

Hall scowled.

"Don't be clever with me, Arthur," he said icily.

"I'm not. I really don't want anything. I think I can make that decision for myself."

"Fine." Hall lit up a cigarette. "Go hungry, then."

"For fuck's sake, I'm a grown man," England growled. "Don't talk to me as though I'm a bleeding _child_."

"I'm not talking to you as though you're a child," Hall replied. "I'm talking to you as though I'm your superior – and you, in turn, will give me the respect that I deserve."

England simply snorted and looked away.

France raised his eyebrows at the exchange.

"It would seem that the rebellious spirit is catching, non?" he purred.

Fonteneau barked something at him in French but France didn't seem terribly perturbed.

"What was it your Shakespeare said?" he went on, looking fixedly at England. "Follow your spirit...?"

"And upon this charge cry "God for Harry, England and Saint George!"," England finished. He looked at Hall, who was clamping his cigarette tightly between white lips. "Although Mr Hall doesn't want anyone crying God for anything," he added, "least of all _me_. It's his favourite anti-war metaphor."

"Ah, of course," France agreed, waving his hand dismissively at Austria, who was shooting him a reproachful look. "That is the sum of it, it would seem. Nobody is to cry 'God!' for England – nor 'God!' for me, nor for anyone, in fact, and it would seem that it is a tragic mistake on Feliciano's part that he cries 'God!' for Germany—"

"Francis, that is _enough_," Fonteneau snapped.

France seemed satisfied by what he'd said, leaning back in his seat. South Italy was glaring blue murder at him, fists clenched, but he said nothing, hunched in his chair.

"I do not understand," Spain suddenly said. He looked at England. "Your Shakespeare, he speaks of war?"

"Yes," England replied guardedly. "In that passage, at least. It's from _Henry V_. It's about..." He shot France a look; France smirked at him, giving him an encouraging little nod. "...It's about fighting the French. The Hundred Years War."

Spain nodded.

"That speaks for itself," he said. "It is from _Henry V_. I know him not – but I assume he was a king of yours?"

"Yes." England gave a bitter smile. "I don't remember him, of course."

"It does not matter. He was a human, your ruler – and the play which bears his name speaks of war. I think that says enough." Spain smiled his usual empty smile. "I remember nothing of my past at all, and in truth remain unsure as to why some of you mistakenly call me 'Antonio' before correcting yourselves with haste, but I know that war is a human pursuit. It is, I assume, _men_ who cry 'God for England' and not you yourself,señor." He looked at García. "Why, then, is it _we_ who are blamed for war? Our hands would be bloodless were it not for you."

García didn't seem to know what to say, gaping at Spain – who in return observed him placidly, smiling the entire time.

Over the lull came a singular peal of applause; America, who had clearly been listening to the entire conversation, was draped over the back of his chair again, clapping quite enthusiastically.

"Alonso," he called, beaming, "I couldn't have said that any fuckin' better myself."

Hall stood up, pointing accusingly at America.

"Clark, get him under control!" he bellowed.

Clark exhaled a cloud of smoke from his cigar, looking at America rather jadedly.

"Alfred, don't make me put a bullet through your skull," he drawled, tapping off the ash.

America simply laughed and clapped Clark on the shoulder.

"Spoken like a true war vet, sir," he said cheerfully.

He didn't pursue the European conversation after that, seeming more interested in whatever story Australia's wild hand gestures were accompanying; England watched America's powerful back for a moment before looking back to France, who met his gaze. France often had a look about him which might once have meant that all he really wanted to do was get you into bed and have his wicked way with you – but since that was generally the casual order of the day more recently, now that sultry look meant something more strangely innocent. He wanted to talk, which had itself become dirtier and more taboo than sex; he wanted to pry secrets out of you like moans and whisper some of his own in your ear like filthy promises. It was obvious he wanted to spill forth his concerns about Italy to someone who would listen (because France had always had had a soft spot for Italy, it was obvious) and in return he wanted from England the details of what had happened—

But England knew there wasn't much point in opening his mouth. Hall would head him off the moment he breached the subject. So England simply gave France a helpless shrug and began to play with some salt left scattered on the table.

France seemed determined to try his luck anyway.

"Arthur," he began—

There was a clear, loud gunshot from beyond the restaurant and then what was undeniably a wail from North Italy.

All of the attendants were up in an instant, hauling their charges with them (not trusting them to be left alone for even a moment, naturally). Each of them had their guns cocked and ready as they got the nations into some semblance of order and filed them out of the restaurant as quickly as possible.

"They are trained for something like this, it becomes clear," France observed with interest. "What exactly are they expecting us to do, I wonder?"

They all came out into the lobby, met at once by the sound of Italy shrieking and sobbing in garbled Italian; and it was obvious at once why he was in such a state. Sprawled on the marble was Germany, spirals of blood flared out beneath his still body, Italy flung over his chest and grasping at his bloodied jacket as he cried.

Moretti, his lip bleeding, was still holding the gun.

Dreher, clearly in the midst of calming down the shocked bar staff and other guests, turned towards the gaggle of attendants and nations.

"There was a security breach," he said briskly. "It has been dealt with. I will be calling in my team now, as will Herr Moretti."

Clark nodded.

"Then I guess we should all just go ahead and call it a night," he said, addressing everyone else. "Don't want to be gettin' in the German team's way. We can discuss this tomorrow before we all leave."

And that was it. The attendants all gave their unanimous agreement and began to systematically scatter, taking their charges with them. The nations were all stunned, nobody putting up much of a fight as they were led away towards stairways and elevators. England saw France linger at the foot of the grand staircase, gazing back at Italy as Moretti tried to prise him off Germany's body. Fonteneau forced him to move and France's entire demeanour became visibly cold, stalking away with an angry toss of his head.

England knew why France had stopped to observe Italy in heartfelt pity; his cries seemed to fill the entire hotel, drifting up through the floors far above the lobby and coiling around the very skeleton of the old building as he clung to the lover that even his shattered memory could not part him from.

_Ti amo. Ti amo. Ti amo._

* * *

><p>"Herr Moretti departed in the early hours of this morning," Dreher said. "He took Feliciano with him, naturally. It has become apparent that there is a serious emotional mutation in Feliciano and it must be dealt with accordingly. It may be some months before Feliciano is of any use and so all national representatives be advised that economic dealings with Northern Italy will have to be dealt with manually until Feliciano is operational again."<p>

He cleared his throat.

"Which brings me to my next point." His voice was very calm, cold, his East German accent wrapped thickly around his words. "As you saw, the only remaining economic representative for the German nation, Ludwig Beilschmidt, is dead. My team removed the body last night. This is, of course, a tragic state of affairs, particularly following the execution of Ludwig's brother Gilbert Beilschmidt in 1947. The reasons differ, naturally – Gilbert's existence was no longer justified following the total abolition of Prussia, whilst Ludwig's end came from, I am ashamed to admit, another emotional malfunction."

Dreher lifted a sheet of paper and scanned down it, mentally translating the German into English before speaking again.

"Herr Moretti and I both gave our statements to our teams last night and my operational head has compiled this report," he said. "Following discussion on the parts of Moretti and myself, we decided that the glitch in Feliciano must be dealt with as soon as possible, for not only did it entice him to show exceeding favouritism towards Ludwig, it also impeded upon Feliciano's ability to coalesce with other nations. The issue with Arthur Kirkland last night was not, according to Moretti, the first time that Feliciano had refused to have relations with another nation. Feliciano himself grew angered by this statement and proceeded to embrace Ludwig, arguing that there was no issue with his feelings and that he loved Ludwig and that Ludwig loved him in return – ah, this is according to Moretti, who provided translation since Feliciano made this admission in Italian. Moretti argued with him and pulled him away from Ludwig; Feliciano became aggressive and attempted to strike Moretti, at which Moretti defended himself by punching Feliciano to knock him to the floor. At this, Feliciano began to cry and Ludwig..." Dreher trailed off, seeming perplexed. "As I said, I can only chalk Ludwig's behaviour up to a serious emotional malfunction. I have never seen him behave in such a manner and conclude that it was a response which mimicked that of protection. He attacked Moretti, punching him several times, and then went for me when I attempted to stop him. Acting in defence of both of our persons, Moretti rightfully drew his gun and shot Ludwig, killing him instantly."

Dreher put down the sheet again, looking around at his silent audience.

"As you know, gentlemen," he added, speaking only to his fellow attendants, "self-safety is utmost in our training. These nations are hundreds of years old, several of them much more than that, and whilst their memories are repressed, they are nonetheless schooled in centuries of war and bloodshed. They are dangerous and we must not forget that. Our jobs are at the lethal frontlines of the global economy and I must stress that Herr Moretti acted entirely in the right manner."

There was applause from the attendants; and icy silence from the dangerous, angry nations in question.

"Lamentably, this is the last that I will convene with you," Dreher said, stilling their clapping with his hand. "It is unfortunate that all economic liaisons with Germany must now be done manually – I myself will be in charge of this but I shall be working from an office in Berlin and will no longer attend these meetings. I apologise for the inconvenience caused by the feigned emotional response in Ludwig towards Feliciano and vice versa – had Moretti and I dealt with the problem sooner, we might not be in this inopportune situation. Gentlemen, it has been my pleasure to work with you these thirteen years. I hope that you will not think too ill of me in my unconditional absence."

There was more applause; and somewhere in the midst of it, South Italy suddenly pitched forward in his seat and vomited onto the floor.

—

Hall's calculator went off just as they were seated in the car, ready to leave for the airport; he pulled it out of his jacket, muttering to himself. England wasn't looking at him, silent as he stared out of the window at the dreary street. He was shocked and angry and scared and disgusted, a jumble of sparking responses mirrored by just about every other nation in that room who had sat and listened to Dreher reel off how he and Moretti had "dealt with" the apparent serious problem existing between their charges.

Germany was dead and all Dreher could say was that he was sorry that he was going to be moving to an office in downtown Berlin.

There was a knock at the window, making England jump; he glanced up to see Clark outside, holding up his own calculator with America hovering behind him. Hall leaned across and opened the door.

"You're cutting it bloody close, Clark," he said sharply.

Clark shrugged.

"Hey, I just do what the damn device tells me, pal," he replied. "Got time for our boys to have a fond farewell or will you miss your flight? I can do it manually if you're short on time."

Hall sighed.

"No, I've already got to put through the data with North Italy last night," he said, getting out of the car. "It'll be easier for me to just have this done now so I don't have to worry about it. They can do it across the backseat."

"Kinky," America said drolly, ducking under Clark's arm and clambering in.

"Jesus, get the fuck on with it, Alfred," Clark sighed. He tossed the box of condoms at America's head and shut the car door. Barely a moment passed before he and Hall got into the driver and passenger's seats, Hall adjusting the mirror so that they could see them.

"Man, this is cramped," America said cheerfully, unbuttoning himself. "Hey, fellas, just so you know, the position's gonna be a little skewed back here. I can't put the same distance between us."

"Well, we don't have time to go back into the hotel," Hall barked, "so just do your best."

America gave him a sarcastic salute, getting himself prepped in record time and waiting for England to adjust his position underneath him.

"Ready?"

"I suppose," England said, doing his best to sound irritable. "Just hurry up. I want to go home."

America simply grinned at him, bracing himself against the window to get a good angle; the position was awkward and England felt his skull thud against the car door as America entered him—

But the moment he was in, the seat seemed to fall out beneath them and England's perception shuddered and then swung violently before settling. They were upright, still in the car but blessedly alone – and in the front seats instead of horizontal across the back.

"You wanna go home without saying goodbye?" America teased, leaning forward and folding his arms across the steering wheel.

England didn't look at him.

"Of course not," he replied quietly. "I'm sorry, I'm just... just rather..."

"Shaken up?" America sighed. "Tell me about it. I couldn't even sleep last night."

"Neither could I." England gave a snap of his fingers. "Like _that_. Just... like that, they killed him." He looked at America desperately. "We're nothing to them, Alfred – just expendable pawns. We make life easier for them but they can do without us if we become too much trouble. They've made that perfectly clear."

"Too much trouble." America leaned back again, fanning his fingers out over the curve of the steering wheel. "Is that even it?"

"W-well—"

"I don't think we're any trouble at all. We barely even exist, you know? They go on about us being dangerous, like they shot Ludwig because they felt threatened when he... jeez, _understandably_ flipped out because he wanted to protect Feliciano, but... it just doesn't gel at all with what they said about Gilbert. They fuckin' shot _him_ simply because they didn't have a use for him. He wasn't too much trouble – he just didn't have a place in the world anymore." America exhaled through his nose. "So they got rid of him."

England put his hands to his face and pressed himself back against the seat.

"Alfred, I don't know how much more of this I can take," he groaned. "It's been thirteen years. Who's to say that Ludwig didn't just... _snap_? That Feliciano last night... I don't know, that it wasn't just the last fucking straw? That's how I feel every time Hall so much as says my name – I want to rip his throat out but what would be the point?" He kneaded at his forehead, closing his eyes. "What would be the bloody _point_?"

"Are you scared?"

"I don't know." Lowering his hands again, England actually laughed. "I don't even fucking _know_. I just... want something, I don't—"

"An escape." America turned towards him, England guardedly opening his eyes to meet his gaze. "You want out of here. You want to just... _go_ somewhere, _anywhere_ – somewhere you can breathe."

"Mm." Those words washed around him, close and sticky inside the car like syrup seduction. "That would be lovely – because I'm going to go mad, Alfred. I don't think I can put up with this for much longer. I don't think _any_ of us can."

"Hold on a little more, okay?" America reached over and pulled him into his grasp, cuddling him close. "I'm working on it, babe."

England sighed against him, settling into his strong arms.

"Don't do anything stupid," he muttered. "_Please_, Alfred."

"It's not stupid," America insisted. "_Nothing_ could be more important." His fingertips slid across the leather horizon of the steering wheel. "I'm gonna get you out of here, Artie, I promise."

* * *

><p>ARTHUR MILLER OR GTFO~<p>

At almost 15,000 words, I'm sure you can see why I decided to separate my remaining word-vomit into two buckets. ...Which I know is a disgusting metaphor, lololol, but it's also an accurate one given my previous track record (I'm looking at you lot,_ O America_, _Pater Noster_ and (poor languishing unloved) _Down Will Come Baby_). I just don't know where all this stuff comes from, I plan for the thing to be a couple thousand words and then it's like JEEBUS HELLO NOVEL! D: I plan to get _this_ thing finished SOON, hopefully in veeeery early October because you should see my hand-written list for pending/half-written/next-chapter-of-neglected-multi-chapter fics for _Hetalia_ ALONE, it's like four miles long and last time I looked at it I even took a pen and scrawled WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? across the page, so...

ANYWAY, thank you for reading! I hope you will come back for what will ACTUALLY BE THE FINAL PART instead of fifteen thousand words of my lies.

RR xXx


	3. Tumble

HERE WE ARE AT LONG LAST. If I was to say what has taken me quite so long to get this thing updated, saying 'Real Life' would actually be only a half-truth. The other half of the truth is that computers fucking _hate me_. Seriously. I have so many problems with them it's not even funny. I've been through three laptops - for some reason they all just seem to pack in on me even though I am never doing anything that taxing or complicated on them. While writing this - the third segment of _Shatter_ - my American laptop (which was bought hurriedly to replace my British one when it gave up the ghost two weeks into my year abroad) decided that... it wasn't going to work anymore. idk why. I'm still waiting for that one to be fixed - but in the meantime I was using an old one we have in the house, which was working rather well: I wrote _Friday Mid-Morning, Green Fields_ and my Christmas Countdown on it (and technically I'm still using it right now buuuuuut) then it decided it wasn't going to let me use Microsoft Word anymore. idk why.

SO. How did I write this? By uploading what I had managed to salvage from the other computer (it was missing two scenes which I had to rewrite :C) to FFNet and writing the rest on Document Manager. SO. If there are ridiculous mistakes, I heartily apologise. It was just that I wasn't going to be outsmarted by Microsoft Word just because it wants my money. This fic has been neglected long enough, I think. However, since writing on Document Manager is not exactly ideal and also since... this is getting ridiculously long again, I decided to cap this where I did and will extend the fic to a total of four chapters. I know, I knoooow. But, really it's just too much in one chapter to put it all here. I feel like it would be losing some of the finer details if it were any longer at the moment.

Shatter 

[3/4]

_(They had been here for what felt like weeks._

_It was too calm; much too still. He was almost getting used to it, to this life, to the feeling of being... contented. It couldn't be good for him, surely.)_

_England was just putting the finishing touches to his masterful making of the bed, tweaking the sheets so that they lay perfectly flat like the icing on a wedding cake, when America came into the bedroom carrying a cardboard box._

"_What have you got there, love?" England asked absently, straightening up._

"_A present for you." America grinned as he approached him. "It came to me this morning. I figured we were missing something, you know, and I know you love to look after things..." He gave a little cough. "Well, you loved looking after __**me**__, at least."_

_England's heart jolted unpleasantly as he looked at the ominous box._

"_It's... not a baby, is it?" he asked guardedly. "If it is then you shouldn't have it in a cardboard box—"_

_America laughed heartily, interrupting him._

"_Of course it's not a baby, dummy!" He held out the box towards England. "Though you can call him your baby if you want!"_

_England cautiously leaned over to inspect the contents of the cardboard crate. There was a tiny kitten trembling in a corner of it, curled up atop the towel lining. It was a fluffy thing, white with a black ring like a collar around its neck and peculiar dark markings on its face, too. It gave a pathetic mewl and clung to the ragged towel when America put his hand into the box and scooped it up in his palm, only letting go because he proved to be more persistent than it._

"_There," America said triumphantly, bundling it into hands that England hadn't exactly had outstretched, leaving him fumbling with the poor creature in a desperate bid not to drop it. "He's for you, Artie. I'll help look after him too, of course – but he's to keep you company while I'm out at work and you're busy being a bestselling-author-housewife, okay?"_

_England didn't know what to say. He simply stood holding the squirming kitten, staring at America, utterly speechless. He was half-incensed and half-touched; baffled, too, and disappointed that America still seemed to think that this was all going to play out exactly as he wished._

"_No need to thank me!" America said breezily, leaning in and planting a kiss on England's cheek. "I know just how to make you smile, sweetheart. Books, tea and something to cuddle and you're happy as a clam."_

"_I've killed people, Alfred," England said weakly; he blurted it out quickly, quietly, barely having any control over it – he certainly didn't know why he had said it. "I've... lived for centuries, I've... I don't know—"_

"_What?" America seemed genuinely confused, frowning. "I... why would you say that as... as an answer?"_

"_Context." England exhaled. "I'm trying to give this some context."_

"_But that's __**out**__ of context," America replied sweetly. "Totally. There's no killing here, darling. There's no more war." He shrugged. "Besides, I don't see why __**any**__ of that would mean that you can't look after a cat."_

_England looked away and gave a desperate shrug._

"_Don't... don't you want him?" America reached out and took England's shoulders, pressing his palms into them. "What do you want, then? __**Do**__ you want a baby?" America was wide-eyed and sincere. "If you want a baby I'll get you one, Arthur. I'll give you anything you want. Do you want to get married? Do you want—"_

"_Alfred, I don't want anything," England interrupted. "Please. I'm fine."_

"_But I __**will**__ give you anything you want," America insisted. "You name it, I'll get it for you. That's this world, Arthur. That's the power of the American Dream. Anything is possible down here." He looked again at the kitten wriggling in Arthur's arms. "Seriously, if you want a baby I'll give you one. Would you rather have a child instead of a kitten? Nobody even has to be pregnant, I can wrangle one up outta thin air—" _

"_Alfred, I'm fine." England sighed again. "I didn't mean to seem ungrateful." He held up the kitten to look at it properly. "He's lovely. He's perfect, even. I don't want a baby – or anything else, alright?"_

_He pulled out of America's grasp and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the kitten into his lap. America didn't look terribly convinced, seeming somewhat sulky as he put his hands in his pockets and observed England greeting the kitten properly._

"_Gonna name him, then?" he asked flatly._

"_Of course." England rubbed at the kitten's small skull with his fingertips, feeling it nudge against the crook of his elbow. "You know... he looks a little bit like you."_

"_You think?" America arched an eyebrow._

"_Yes. Look at these little markings on his face." England smiled faintly up at America. "They look like your glasses."_

"_Even better," America said wryly. "He'll be __**excellent**__ company for you, then – since I know you simply can't bear to be away from me."_

"_Oh, of course not. I wither away in pining whilst not in your presence." England stroked the kitten's dark ruff thoughtfully as it pawed at his hand. "Well, since he looks so much like you – and apparently craves attention in much the same manner – I shall simply have to think along your lines for his name."_

_America visibly brightened at this suggestion._

"_How about Liberty?" he offered at once._

_England scrunched his nose._

"_After your __**female**__ statue?"_

_America stuck out his tongue._

"_Fine then," he said. "Declaration of Independence? Old Glory? The Crossing of the Delaware?"_

"_Now you're just being obtuse." England looked down at the kitten snuggled in his lap thoughtfully. "Those things do all have a common factor, though—"_

"_Yeah," America cut in teasingly. "__**Me**__."_

"_Not just you. A man – a man named after one of my kings, in fact." England frowned. "Not that I fucking remember either of them."_

"_I do," America said, grinning, "and I think it's a good choice."_

"_Oh, I am glad." England looked down at the newest member of their hastily-stitched Fabulous Fifties Family, smiling in spite of himself. "George it is, then."_

—

_By evening, a boisterous nature in the newly-dubbed George – much akin to that in America himself – had thoroughly emerged and England had torn lace curtains, several clawed table legs and a broken glass to prove it. Despite his apparent ownership of the cat, England found that America had gotten more enjoyment out of the pet today, playing for hours with him all over the house._

_It was ironic, then, that America had apparently tired himself out – for he lay asleep on the sofa, stretched out so that his long limbs overhung the sweet pastel cushions – but had failed to do the same for George, who was as energetic as ever and batted playfully at the small bundle of feathers tied together at the end of a string on a stick as England waved it not unlike a wand, casting a dizzy spell over the creature._

_Dusk was drawing in outside and they had the fire lit; England sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth, one of America's knitted cardigans thrown on over his dress shirt as he lazily cast the toy this way and that for George. America was snoring a little bit, deeply asleep, but the soft swell of classical music – Schubert, at this instant – drifting from the wireless radio on the mantelpiece gently drowned it. The room was pretty like this, warmly fire-glowing and with them in it, settled into an idyllic and stolen life._

_Perhaps he __**should**__ have asked for a baby—_

_No, __**two**__ babies – two-point-__**five**__ babies, even; and a white wedding and a honeymoon in New York City and a diamond ring and a real mink coat and a car all of his own with a handy-dandy mirror for reapplying his lipstick at stop signs. _

_George caught the feathers and pulled, snapping the stick out of England's slack hand. He dragged his prize away to gnaw on it and England didn't pursue, folding his hands in his lap and sighing to himself as he looked at the fire. Yes, the room was pretty. The whole damned house was absolutely beautiful – America had spilled his heart into its design and England had done his utmost to keep it, taking care of it with grateful pride so that it was ever spotless and shining._

_He was happy down here with America, with Alfred – and he was so settled than he was unsettled. It wasn't even that he knew that it wasn't real, that all they were really doing whilst living days and weeks like blissful newlyweds here in American Dreamsville was fucking on some grotty hotel room bed—_

_No, it wasn't that which bothered him. It was his memory (or lack thereof). He could remember nothing and yet he __**knew**__. He knew that they weren't supposed to be living like this. He knew that they weren't human. He knew that America knew that, too – and it chafed him, made him bristle even though he knew nothing else other than being a living economy calculator for the United Kingdom. They had domesticated him, his own government – and now America, too. _

_(economy)Breeding animal. Housewife. The line between them was barely even there, really. _

_He wasn't supposed to be happy with this. This life wasn't supposed to feel as though it was enough. He barely knew his own history and yet, sleeping, dormant, knew what it felt like to rule the globe. A pretty house with a flower garden and a mailbox wasn't meant to be the extent of his world – and neither were an office in London and a conference room in a hotel (with plenty of convenient rooms for fucking in). He was never alone with his own glory or the choice to go as far as he wanted (and keep on going to the ends of the earth). He was a nation and yet didn't know what it was like to be one's own soil._

_America was not cruel or unkind. He had no intention of belittling England, of squashing him squarely into the role of the cute little homemaker who baked apple pies in a pretty dress and frilled apron, but the landscape he had created was so tightly domestic, so far removed from the war that the humans were trying to prevent from occurring again – the war that England wished he could remember, ached for even a scrap of, if only so that he could know how much it had hurt, that it wasn't what he wanted, that he was happier to grow stagnant in a perfumed world of pastels and prosperity._

_He looked at the kitten again and felt rather sorry for himself when he saw how akin they were; once-wild creatures distracted by bright new things to bat after._

_England rose and picked up George, gently cradling him as he crossed to the couch. He placed the kitten on America's chest, pleased that the warmth of America's body enticed him to curl up and settle at long last. England rubbed behind George's ear absently, his gaze moving to America instead._

_England could speak nothing of America's land, knew nothing of its natural beauty whatsoever, well-versed instead in the new grey highways between hotels and airports; but America himself was undeniably a very handsome young man, broadly-built and strong with an ambitious yet somehow fragile smile. His hair was the gold California had once bled and his eyes the defiant blue of Boston Harbor. His hands had built the Transatlantic Railroad and his feet had paced out the Frontier and his skin had cracked with thirst in the Dust Bowl. He was tame in that sense, a true Nation of Men, but no more a domesticated fireside pet than England was—_

_No matter how much he looked like one, sprawled asleep on the sofa with the cat, the husband dozing dreamfully sometime after dinner in the buffer before bed as part of a daily routine._

_George rolled over onto his back, claws out, and played roughly with England's hand as he petted him; his tiny talons tore the skin but England pulled his hand back out of instinct, not out of pain. It had not hurt – though perhaps it should have – and there was no blood. It was minor, of course, but it should have stung at least a little; England ran his mouth over where the damage wasn't and looked at America again._

_There was no pain down here._

_England slipped out of the living room, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could to shut in the warmth and the glow and America's Dream; silent too in unlatching the front door and pulling it almost-shut as he padded gently in carpet slippers down the steps of the porch, down the winding sugar-sweet pathway gently dividing the lawn. His fingertips ran over the gleam of the mailbox, cool and solid, as he passed through the neat white teeth of their picket-fence and onto the sidewalk._

_The sky was a dusty purple, greying at the edges, with the sun a slender segment of juicy orange right on the horizon, lush and wavering as it sank out of sight. The street was silent and ornamental, beautiful houses just like their own lined up like soldiers, cars glowing in the cinnamon flare of the sunset. No-one lived in them, no-one drove them. They were simply there for show, for decoration, for comfort. The two of them were alone down here, Alfred-and-Arthur, the designer of the American Dream and the little stowaway he kept for company. They were alone and there was nothing to this world, it seemed, other than this single street._

_He wasn't supposed to be happy with this. _

_England took off his slippers and put them on the grass beside the stem of the mailbox (which he checked, absently, but there was no mail for either of them because there never was). The pavement felt real beneath his bare feet, hard and cool enough – as did the empty road between the two sides of the suburban street when he stepped out into it. He looked at their house from this vantage point, admiring it briefly, at the way the firelight blushed against the lace curtains at the living room window, and then started walking._

_Humans had once believed the world to be flat. He did not remember that, of course, but he knew it. They had sailed the seas in fear that they would eventually come to the edge and tumble off into the ether. In reality the world was round and therefore endless – but this was not reality and England wondered how far the American Dream could go. When he reached the horizon, would there be nothing more? Would he find himself at the edge of America's imagination, teetering on the brink between what his lover could give him and what he couldn't?_

_He walked and walked and the street went on and he got no closer; the sun was nothing but an amber sigh now, lying flat along the black horizon, and he knew that once, during the heyday of an Empire he had no recollection of, the sun had been ever upon him, sinking in one place of his ownership and rising in another so that he had ruled both day and night at once._

_England stopped and America, who had been barely a few paces behind him the entire time, caught his wrist._

"_God doesn't trust the British in the dark," he drawled, "and apparently neither should I. Where are you going, Arthur?"_

"_Nowhere." England pulled. "Clearly. Let go."_

_America didn't._

"_Are you trying to run away?" he asked lightly._

"_No."_

"_Looks like it."_

"_I'm not, I just... I wanted—no, __**needed**__ to see just... just how far I can go here." England gave a snort. "Not very, as it turns out."_

_America gave a weary sigh._

"_I'm still building this place. I'm working on more but at the moment it's hard for me to even sustain this one street."_

"_Liar." England twisted more fiercely in America's lazy grip. "For fuck's sake, Alfred, let __**go**__!"_

"_Arthur, this is stupid." America pulled at him, making him face him. "Why are you being like this all of a sudden? You were fine before. Aren't you happy here anymore?"_

"_I am," England insisted, "I just... I don't know—" He sighed. "It's... not enough."_

"_I told you," America said irritably, "I'm __**working**__ on—"_

"_How can __**you**__ be satisfied with this?" England interrupted desperately. "With this... humdrum life, with this—"_

"_Arthur—"_

"_Oh, I know that it's idyllic, I know that it's perfect, I know that I should thank you, Alfred – I __**know**__ I should, because what's waiting for us when we eventually part up there is much worse than this, far more restricting, but I just..." England tried to pull away again but America held him more tightly than ever. "My god, Alfred, this is for __**humans**__! When you invented the American Dream, you had humans in mind – not __**me**__. This isn't enough for me."_

"_Just give me time," America said soothingly. "Okay, baby? I'm working on it. You just have to be patient—"_

"_Be patient whilst you build more streets?" England interrupted angrily. "Be patient whilst you put in a church and a corner shop? Alfred, I can't live like this! I don't remember anything but I know this sort of life isn't designed for someone like me! I'm a nation – I'm greedy and warlike and I know __**that**__ without remembering a bloody thing! I'm not a pretty little housewife and you're not a breadwinner husband! We __**both**__ need more than this – why can't you see that?"_

_America gave a deep sigh. _

"_Why can't __**you**__ see," he reasoned patiently, "that the world has changed? This is how it is now – this is the result of the work that __**we**__ do in those hotel rooms, Arthur. There is no more war or conquest or empire. There are only two worlds you can live in – and they're both the same, really. What we have in reality is the life of a nation as it is now. What we have here is the life of the humans who benefit from the control our governments have over us. There is nothing else."_

"_You have a vast imagination, as you have proven by creating this!" Arthur snapped. "Why can't you make something else? You took me through all those eras the other afternoon to try and teach me a lesson – why not now?" He seized America's shirt in shaking fists. "I want the war, Alfred. A war. Any war. Please."_

"_No." America firmly disentangled him. "That's behind us now. I'm not giving you what you want, Arthur – I'm giving you what you need. You'd be happy with this if only you could remember, you know." _

"_Anything, then!" England begged. "A... a ship on golden seas! A world where everything is upside-down! A—"_

"_Carrollian whimsies won't make you happy, either," America said glumly. "You're much harder to please than I had first thought – even though you don't remember what it's like to get whatever you want the instant you demand it."_

"_And apparently you are not about to start indulging me," England snapped. He finally twisted himself loose and stormed away a few paces, very firmly presenting America with his back._

"_Where do you think you're going, Arthur?" America asked wearily; and England stopped dead, fists clenched, though he did not turn to him. "There's nothing here but this."_

"_You said you'd give me anything I wanted," England said blandly._

"_But you want more than I can give you."_

_England whirled on him crossly._

"_I don't think what I'm asking for is all that unreasonable!" he spat._

"_Well, I do," America replied coldly. "I've given you an escape. I've given you a life, Arthur – more of a life than you've had before, believe it or not. I'm sorry if it's not good enough for you."_

"_You've given me a life as a housewife! You built me that house so can I get on my knees and scrub it clean every day! I ruled the world once – how can you possibly __**ever**__ have thought that I would want to be your scullery maid?"_

"_Because I don't have it in me to make you a king," America said frostily. "Grandness and arrogance are what caused those wars in the first place. The past belongs in the past and so does your rotten attitude."_

"_So this is a punishment," England said loftily. "I see."_

"_No!" America gave a frustrated exhale. "This is just... a fresh start. For both of us, okay? This is how life is now and... well, we love each other, right? So what's so wrong with giving this life a try? We can be happy here, Arthur, if you would just let go of the pride you still have left over from a life you can't even remember."_

_England looked at him, his shoulders sagging. He was still angry, still aching for the beyond of the horizon, but he nonetheless felt that America was right. He had more than anyone else, that was for sure; far more than Spain and South Italy, than North Italy and Germany and Prussia._

"_I'm sorry, Alfred," he said, looking away. "I __**am**__ being rotten to you."_

"_It's alright. Just come home with me, okay?" America held out his slippers. "I brought these for you. Your feet will get cold."_

_England let America lift him onto the bonnet of the nearest car, a sleek silver number glittering in the moonlight; he sat on it as America knelt and put his plain old carpet slippers back on for him as though he was Cinderella. The next part was the Happily Ever After, of course._

"_I am sorry," he said again, his voice quiet. "I really __**wasn't**__ trying to run off, Alfred. I'm not trying to get away from you. I do love you." _

"_I know."_

"_I'm just restless, you see."_

"_Yeah." America straightened again and stretched; the gloam of the moon flashed over his glasses. "Guess we could both do with a change of scenery for a little while."_

"_Maybe I'll plant some new flowers in the garden."_

"_And I'll do some more work." America held out his palm as England slid down off the car and they clasped hands, fingers entangling as they walked back down the middle of the empty road together towards the house. "This is the age of commercial travel, after all."_

"_Oh?"_

"_We could go on vacation," America went on. "If it's just for a few days I can probably sustain it." He frowned. "I mean, I can't... can't do planes or anything yet, I mean, jeez, but..." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I guess I can do us a road trip or something. It'll be fun! Just you, me and the open road! You can be in charge of the map, Artie. What do you say?"_

"_Well..." _

_They were at the pathway again, George sitting under the mailbox; he bounded lightly to them, winding his slender body between England's legs as they moved towards the porch._

"_I suppose it would be nice," England agreed at length. "But what about George?"_

"_We can bring him with us!" America said brightly, bending to scoop the cat up. "He'd love it, wouldn't you, Mr Washington?"_

_George gave a mewl and twisted his body to scrabble up onto Alfred's shoulder. They were on the porch now, and America gave the ajar front door a little kick to open it and allow them into the house. _

"_Then it's all settled," he said brightly, pulling England in after him. "We'll have ourselves a getaway and I'll show you just how far my mind can stretch. I promise I'll do my best to make you happy, Arthur."_

_He was still clutching England's hand very tightly; and he didn't let go until the front door was firmly shut behind them._

* * *

><p>This was a scene they had all witnessed before and England was glad that he had his back to it. He couldn't help but hear it, however, as his breathing was loud only to him and Japan was well known for not making a sound.<p>

Japan was an easy fuck, pretty to look at and dedicated to the comfort of others; unlike North Italy, he did not make life difficult for his enforced partners, tilting his hips with a gentle sway that almost made the act pleasurable. He was a cool breeze amongst the unpleasant closeness of everyone else and England liked him even though he knew that Japan had been brutal in his time.

Hall was drumming his fingers on the tabletop, sour face hanging as though suspended from his temples by nails, apparently eager to be done here so that he could take England back over to the rows of seats set up before the podium and listen to Moretti properly. He was paying much less attention to the coupling than Takano, Japan's attendant, who was watching them through his glasses in a somewhat unnerving manner.

This newfound perversion of Takano's was, of course, not limited to the Japanese man alone; most attendants had taken to observing their charges at all times like absolute hawks following the incident with Germany and North Italy. Hall, however, was shrewder than that, much to England's unease.

He only ever paid proper attention when England's bed-mate was America.

Moretti was not alone on the stage – and his presence and presentation mimicked that of García three months before, North Italy (in place of Spain) standing at his side with fiery hair and brand new eyes. The speech was almost exactly the same, pushing forward to the gathered world the reincarnation of Feliciano Vargas in the same body that had betrayed him; this new lamb for the slaughter was named Valentino instead, the sort of name that earned an ironic smile from many of the attendants.

Valentino. He would wear this name around his neck like a placard; this was what he had done and this was why he had been punished. St Valentine had been cruel with him and crueller still with Ludwig Beilschmidt.

Japan's fingers worked nimbly, folding up his absent-minded habit, his every-time gesture of goodwill out of thin patterned paper. He didn't even have to look, his skill manifesting itself out of centuries of banished history yet ingrained. It was a better focal point than his face, which was as still and senseless as a porcelain doll's. England had plenty of these paper cranes, crumpled in suit pockets as empty gifts from Japan once the deed was done; as did everyone else, an agreed symbol of friendship (not that Japan remembered what he might have done to make people not want to be friends with him). That was the extent of their history together now – faded origami birds that smelt of sterile sex.

"You ought not to pity him," Japan said gently; it was sudden, punctuated by the final tug he gave to the crane's wings, and England blinked at him.

"I oughtn't pity who?" he asked guardedly.

"Feliciano." Japan gave a sigh. "I-I mean Valentino. Nor Alonso."

"I don't," England said, looking through his eyelashes at Hall.

"It is better for Valentino this way," Japan went on, "just as it is better for us all."

"Kiku—"

"I do not desire _my_ memory back," Japan said firmly, "for I see scars on myself and scars on others and am glad that I cannot remember the pain. It is cowardly, perhaps, but it is a part of history that has been pushed firmly into the past and it should stay there."

England didn't know what to say to that (though knew that it was hardly within his interest to disagree, not with Hall watching him out of the corner of his eye like that); perhaps it was true that he loved America all the more because he had nothing to pardon, could not remember the War of Independence or the War of 1812 and the rifts that those conflicts had undoubtedly driven between them – but it remained a fact that he and America, just like North Italy and Germany and Spain and South Italy, had been in a relationship _before_ the worldwide wipe in November 1945. It was not forgetfulness, then, that had been the original foundation of their feelings – it had been forgiveness.

Perhaps Japan could not forgive and instead savoured his ignorance because it was the only way he could be content.

"We can be happy without history," Japan said quietly; and he smiled and slipped the crane into the top pocket of England's suit jacket, almost-contact on the borderline of being forbidden. "This is the world that we have long strived for: In which we cannot know the terrible things that we have done to others and that they have done to us. This is peace."

—

"Just a quick note on the bullets, really," Clark drawled. "We all saw 'em in action – more or less – a few months back with that unpleasant business involving the German economic representative Ludwig Beilschmidt. That incident was actually the first time the bullets had been used in practice and the results showed up a few glitches."

America leaning languidly on the podium at his side, Clark withdrew his own gun from his belt; he cracked open the cylinder and let the gold bullets roll out onto his palm, flashing in the fluorescent light.

"'Course, these babies are the last resort in self-defence," he went on, his low and lazy accent rolling over the words – Louisiana, maybe, or Mississippi. "Regular weapons can't kill a nation – but when _these_ make contact with the economic calculation systems in our nation's bodies, they set off a chemical reaction which stops the heart. The research behind these innocent-looking little bullets is phenomenal – and, as of recently, has been discovered to nonetheless be flawed."

Clark gave a humourless little laugh.

"You all know that I didn't come up here to lecture you on how these things work. You were all briefed thirteen years ago when you got your posts as attendants and were given your guns – I won't insult your intelligence." He clapped America on the shoulder. "I won't insult yours, either, Alfred. You know to toe the line, don't you?"

"Sure do, sir," America said cheerfully.

"We've been working on a reissue," Clark said dismissively, barely acknowledging America's response. "These bullets are designed to kill, of course, should a nation be beyond control – but they're designed also to download all remainin' economic figures and information in order to bridge the gap between the use of the nation for liaisons and the beginning of ongoing manual input. The results of the download from Ludwig Beilschmidt's body, however, were missing several chunks of vital information. Dreher, as you all know, has had a hell of a job gettin' everything back in order following Ludwig's death."

Clark reholstered the pistol, clinking the bullets in a loose fist.

"Well, there'll be more information nearer the time of the weapon reissue. My team'll be in charge of that, naturally – and in the meantime, try not to use your guns." He ran a hand through his white hair, well slicked back with oil. "Losin' that information is gettin' to be more than our damn jobs are worth."

There was bustle and cloistered conversation following this; matches had been going on all the while, of course, France rather disgruntled at having been harmonized with Russia and marched to the back of the room to serve his time. America was hopping down the steps to the stage with an unfathomable bounce in his heel when his name flipped over on the screen next to Belgium's; she was hailed by her attendant and they were chased towards one of the tables, passing England on his way back from a thoroughly-uninterested tumble with Estonia.

It was deliberate, calculated: America brushed his hand against England's as they passed one another, his fingertips curling and sweeping into England's palm, and the moment elongated and froze. There was silence and they were alone, briefly, in the garden of the little house with the trees dressed in the scarlet velvets and amber jewels of autumn, the air alive with the slow dying ballet of spiralling leaves.

England didn't dare move, nor even speak, in terror of shattering it. America smiled at him and held up their hands, kissing England's knuckles as though attending upon a king.

"But... we aren't even..." England trailed off weakly, looking at America in half-admiring despair.

"I know," America replied. "I've been working on it. Besides, I'm about to find myself... otherwise engaged in that regard. But don't worry." He leaned in and kissed England on the forehead. "I promise to lie back and think of you."

And the moment was gone – and the garden and the silence and the freedom. America was past him and did not glance back for even a moment, sailing by as though he hadn't even seen him with pretty Belgium stoic at his side.

England, meanwhile, couldn't help but stumble as though America had knocked right into him; and he rubbed absently at his hand, righting the falter in his step with America's name in his mouth. He looked up and met Hall's gaze.

"Watch where you're going, Arthur," Hall said icily, not taking his eyes off him. "One of these days you're going to fall flat on your face."

* * *

><p>"<em>Of course," America said conversationally, nudging against England with affection, "it's much more lucid when we're going at it like knives. Contact, you know? Gives me more to work with." He walked his fingers up England's arm. "Those little sparks of feeling between us are bricks I can build our world with."<em>

"_The latter half of what you just said was positively poetic," England said wryly. "The former, however, was completely vile."_

_America gave a cheerful scrunch of his nose, hitching his glasses up. They were sitting on the bare boards of the back porch with cocoa and cigarettes, smoky and sweet and sultry; and England's garden lay flat and bare, sweated out under autumn's burden and buried beneath a crisp covering of crimson._

_George prowled amongst the leaves, flat on his belly like a snake, even his tail bowed low to the ground; and he brought his prizes proudly to lie between their feet, big leaves with tiny pinprick-teethmarks in them, before bounding off again._

"_It wasn't like this before, was it?" England tapped off his cigarette, glancing at America sidelong._

"_How do you mean, sugarbun?"_

"_Please." England rolled his eyes. "I mean that. __**This**__, even."_

"_You've asked that before, you know." America swilled his cocoa around his mug distractedly. "I told you: Get in the back of the Jeep and hope we can both get off before the damned air raid siren starts wailing." He gave a snort. "Why? Is that what you want? I already told you—"_

"_No." England sighed. "No, I'm alright."_

"_I know what it is," America said. "It's books. Books have done this to you. I mean, you don't have any memory of—"_

"_Oh, come now," England interjected frostily, "next you'll be diagnosing me with Female Hysteria."_

_America gave a snort of laughter._

"_Well," he drawled, "I guess I do have to admire your steadfast refusal to be tied into an apron and left with a baby in your arms."_

"_This isn't a joke, you prick."_

"_I know." America's eyes gleamed interestedly as he watched England; he took a half-committed inhale on his cigarette. "Sometimes I look at you and I think you're just untameable, really – and then I think holy crap, this guy __**raised**__ me."_

_England bristled, looking away._

"_And what's __**that**__ supposed to mean?" he bit out._

"_Golly, I don't know, I guess." America batted at George with his foot, making the cat roll over and claw playfully at the sole of his shoe. "It's just a weird contrast, you know? You went from being this teenaged rebel pirate out all hours of the night drinking and... and swashbuckling and I don't know what else to Mommy Hen all over me like overnight – and it's the same with this, all those wars and everything and then nothing but half-assed domesticity."_

"_That half-arsed domesticity is your doing, Alfred."_

_America shook his head._

"_Not __**this**__, exactly. I'm not the one who wiped your memories. I'm talking about out there, too. You were the British Empire and look what your government has done to you – they whore you out for good economy ratings, just the way everyone else's government does, and you let them with barely a complaint. They wouldn't have __**dared**__ do this to you fifty years ago. You __**are**__ docile now, Arthur – but you allowed them to do it. They didn't break you." He frowned. "That's why I don't understand why this isn't enough for you. It __**should**__ be."_

"_Alfred—"_

"_So I figure it has to be the books you read – because you can't remember anything of that life at all. You've had adventure – you've had the world at your fucking feet, even – but it's a life lost to you and the longings you have now really are kind of like the wishes of bored housewives – you know, women who were girls in the war, factory workers building bombs and planes or members of the WAC, girls who have known adventure but traded it in for the American Dream because they wanted to be secure and happy."_

_England slammed down his cocoa on the porch, furious._

"_You really are unbelievable!" he seethed. "It's enough that you insult me by more or less making me your damned housewife in role, if nothing else – but I __**refuse**__ to be likened to some silly factory girl—"_

"_Silly?" America frowned. "Now who said anything about her being silly?'_

_England simply scowled, hunching over his cigarette as America leaned in and kissed him on the temple, pausing long enough to whisper in his ear:_

"_What on earth is silly about pursuing happiness?"_

—

_"Aww, you don't have to make me an apple pie!" America crooned from the kitchen table. "I mean, it's sweet of you an' all but-"_

_"Shut up," England said coldly, his back to him. He sliced the peeled apples into quarters with quick, sharp motions, cutting them cleanly._

_"Well, I'm just **saying**!" America said earnestly. "Is this your way of apologising?"_

_"I'm hardly apologising to you."_

_America shrugged._

_"I guess you probably **will **burn it," he reasoned. "Maybe I should consider this to be revenge?"_

_"Shut **up**!" England whirled on him, throwing a chunk of apple right at his face; America caught it effortlessly smack in the middle of his palm. "Watch your stupid mouth - I swear to God you don't even listen to yourself talking!"_

_"I do so listen," America replied lightly; he turned the apple chunk this way and that before sinking his teeth into it. He bit it in half with a healthy, satisfying snap, chewing. "Just like I'm listening to you right now."_

_"Are you?" England asked coldly, turning away again. "I don't think you are. I don't think you've heard a word I've said at all."_

_"Sure I have," America chirped. "You don't wanna be my housewife. That's fair enough." He gave a shrug. "...You don't seem to be doing much about it, though."_

_"And what's **that **supposed to mean?" England inquired dangerously, scooping up the diced apple filling and dumping it unceremoniously into the empty base._

_"Uh..." America tossed the rest of the apple into his mouth and crunched it up. "Well, you **are** baking me an apple pie."_

_"Only so I can smack it right into your smug face, I assure you." England liberally sprinkled sugar and cinnamon on top of his apples._

_"Well, yeah, that's one option," America said lightly; he stood up. "Or - now hear me out - you could let me eat the pie."_

_"I'll do nothing of the sort," England said testily. "You'll likely mock it anyway."_

_"Then why bake it?" America pressed, approaching him. "You don't want to be a housewife or a scullery maid? Fine. So don't bake apple pies."_

_"And if I happen to enjoy baking?"_

_"Arthur." America seized him and forcibly turned him to face him, looking at him very intently. "I need you to do something for me. I need you to be perfectly sure of what you want, okay?"_

_England blinked at him for a moment before narrowing his eyes._

_"I've already told you what I want," he said archly. "More. More than this. More, apparently, than what you can give-"_

_"Do you want freedom?" America insisted, tightening his grasp on him. "Forget the housewifery, okay? Forget your damned pride for a moment. Just tell me - do you want to be free from being used by our governments? You've fought for freedom before, you know; Europe's freedom, in fact. Ludwig crushed everyone else but you... you said No Fucking Way."_

_"And you want me to say that now?" England asked guardedly. "When we part this time, do you want me to look Hall right in the eye and tell him No Fucking Way?"_

_America laughed._

_"Well, that would be pretty sweet," he said, "but no, not exactly. I just... need to know that this is what you want. Not **this**, exactly, before you start banging on about being my housewife again - but I need to know that you want to be free to go where you want and do what you like, that you want to be allowed to love me if it pleases you."_

_"Of course that's what I want," England said exasperatedly. "Look, Alfred... A lot of what you've done here, it annoys me as much as it makes me happy, but..." He sighed. "I **do **love you - and I know you've only done all this because you love **me**. This life isn't perfect - well, actually, I suppose it **is **perfect, which is probably why I don't like it - but it's... it's something."_

_"Okay," America said, breaking into a relieved smile. "I'm glad you're sure. I do need you to do something else for me, though."_

_"And what's that?" England smirked in spite of himself, feeling America's grasp tighten on him just a little more, sliding and adjusting. "Give you a little TLC, love?"_

_America looked away briefly and England, who had been about to kiss him, paused warily._

_"Uh, no," America replied absently. "I'm gonna need you to remember how to stand up for yourself."_

_And then America grabbed him by the front of his shirt and tossed him straight at the kitchen table. England slammed right into it and halfway collapsed, holding onto the the edge of it in a desperate bid to stay upright._

_"What the hell is the matter with you?" he seethed, dragging himself up and turning furiously to America. "If you want to rough-house, this is **not **the place!"_

_"Sorry." America looked at him unhappily. "You don't remember how to fight at all, do you?"_

_"Of course not, you bleeding **moron**! They wiped my memory!"_

_"I know." America's fists were loosely clenched as he approached England again. "I'll go easy on you. Just... just try to remember how to fight quickly, okay?"_

_"What the hell are you talking-**Christ**!" England twisted himself out of the way at the last instant, America's powerful fist sailing past his cheek with the barest of margins to spare. "Are you trying to kill me?"_

_"Come on, put your fists up, at least," America sighed._

_"I am not playing with you," England said icily, straightening again; he dusted himself down. "You've got some nerve, treating me like this."_

_"Arthur, this is important!" America burst out frustratedly. "I need you to remember how to fight!"_

_"Well, this is hardly the place!" England snapped. "If you utterly insist, let's at least go out to the garden."_

_"No." America shook his head. "It's all grass out there. I need something hard to split your head open."_

_England's eyes widened._

_"Wh-what?"_

_America said nothing more; his blue eyes glinted with a frosted resolve behind his glasses as he launched himself at England again. He moved with the confidence and liquidity of someone trained to fight, of course, with no wasted motions whatsoever; and England knew that he too had once been like this, his brained soaked in the secrets of close combat - but it was long gone, even terror not thrusting it back at him when he needed it most. America swung his fist back and it smashed squarely into England's chest, sending him reeling against the counter._

_"St... stop it, Alfred!" he managed to gasp out as he staggered against the sideboard. "You're going... going to kill me!"_

_"Not down here, I'm not," America replied lightly. "I've only briefly put in the ability to feel pain to make you fight back."_

_"I don't remember how!"_

_"Then think on your feet." America slammed his elbow into England's chest and, rocking backwards with the motion, swept the opposite leg into a light ankle hook to take England's feet out from under him. "Or think on the floor, I guess."_

_He pressed his foot down on England's back, right on his shoulder blade, and pinned him to the kitchen floor with his weight._

_"Alfred, for god's sake," England pleaded through gritted teeth. "Stop it, **please**..."_

_"No!" America snapped angrily. "Don't beg! Don't you **dare **beg me to stop! You would **never **have begged before they did this to you!" He stamped on England's shoulder, grinding his heel into the bone. "This is nothing! Germany bombed you to bits and you barely flinched! You'd have **laughed **at this, Arthur." America lifted his foot again and pressed it under England's stomach, giving a sharp flick of his ankle to kick him into the legs of the kitchen table. "Now get up!"_

_"You're insane," England hissed, pushing himself up; his shoulder throbbed and his stomach blazed. "N-no amount of beating the hell out of me... is going to make me r-remember how to win a war."_

_"Well, that's a shame," America said coolly, "because it's a war we need to win." He reached behind him and swept the knife off the sideboard into his waiting palm. "Maybe holding this about two inches from your face will jog a certain memory or two. You certainly weren't a pushover then, huh?"_

_He flipped the knife over in his hand and took one, two steps before plunging forward, his arm swinging downwards right at England's throat; England, already on the floor, twisted frantically and the edge of the blade grazed his arm, flashing through his shirt sleeve and leaving in its wake a spray of blood and a sting quite unlike anything England ever remembered feeling before. America's arm came back and then swung again with fervidity and passion of a conductor before an orchestra-_

_England caught America's wrist, stopping him; and then, as America blinked at him in pleased surprise, England smashed his elbow into America's crotch. The knife clattered out of his hand and England snatched it up in turn as he scrambled away from America's doubled form._

_"Ugghhh, you bastard," America groaned. "I said fight properly - not fight dirty!"_

_"You're trying to kill me!" England exploded._

_"No, I'm trying to break the lock your government put on your combat ability when they wiped you." America straightened again. "Fine, since you're beginning to get the hang of this, no more pain - for either of us." He gave a relieved little sigh. "God, that is **much** better. I think you bruised it!"_

_"I sincerely hope that I **broke **it," England replied icily; the burn in his arm, too, had vanished._

_"Aww, we'll see if you're still saying that tonight." America smiled sweetly at him and stepped forwards; England thrust the knife towards him, holding him at bay with its blade._

_"I **will** be saying that because you're absolutely mental if you think I'm letting you anywhere near me," he bit out. "You just stay where you are."_

_"Oh, please," America laughed; and he pressed his finger to the tip of the blade. "I'm not an apple, babe." He pressed down on the knife once, twice, thrice - and on the third time the knife vanished and in its place England held a feather instead. "Well, gee, I don't think you're gonna do much damage with that, huh?"_

_England threw the feather at him in disgust; and realised his mistake when America caught his hand, twisted him under his arm as though they were dancing and then threw him at the table again. His thrust was higher this time and England tumbled across its surface, twisting to land (a little gracelessly) on his feet on the other side of it._

_"Clap clap clap," America drawled. "I'm very impressed. At least you're a fast learner, sugarbun."_

_He moved towards the table and England, half-panicked, shoved it from his side, flipping it onto its flank; America idly stepped back and it missed him by a good few inches._

_"Are you scared, Arthur?" he asked in a low voice. "I can't have you being scared. Freedom always has a price, you know. You've got to fight for it and you can't be afraid to do so."_

_"I'm scared of you bashing my skull in, you nutcase!" England flung back at him. "Don't wax poetic with me when you've made your intentions perfectly clear! Honestly, I really **don't **think you listen to yourself talk!"_

_"Oh, that. You won't understand - at least not right now. It would take a long explanation about the ways we fought the Nazis in the war and we ain't really got the time for that right now-"_

_"Alfred, **what **are you talking about?" England demanded._

_America sighed._

_"There's something... in that pretty little head of yours that I need," he said. "That **we **need if we're going to be free."_

_England blinked._

_"Wh... No, no. You're the one with... with the strength to override-"_

_"It's not like that." America looked frustrated again. "Look, you won't understand. If... if you remembered Bletchley Park and the work we did there, if you remembered what happened afterwards with Colossus, we wouldn't even be having this conversation - but you don't and I can't make you understand. Even a history lesson won't make you understand, Arthur."_

_"Wouldn't it be better than this?" England cried. "You throwing me around like a punching-bag?"_

_"No," America replied blandly, "because I'd still need to break open your skull to get what I need." _

_"As if I'm going to stand still and let you do that!" England seethed, clenching his fists._

_"You agreed to it, Artie. I asked you if this was what you wanted."_

_"You tricked me! That's some bloody fine print, Alfred! You asked me if I wanted to be happy. I didn't know it would come at the cost of having my brains splattered across the kitchen floor!"_

_"I told you, freedom always has its price."_

_"Well, I'm still not going to just **let **you do it!"_

_America beamed._

_"Well, great," he chirped. "That's exactly what I want to see! Stand up for yourself, sweetheart!"_

_"...You're still going to crack my head open, aren't you?"_

_"Of course," America said sweetly, "but I need you to be able to fight. You're going to need it, trust me. This seemed like the perfect opportunity."_

_He stepped up onto the side of the table and sprung lightly onto England's side of it; England cautiously backed up as America stood before him, raising his fists once more._

_"Come on, then," America went on in a low, gentle voice. "I think we're getting somewhere here."_

_He came at England again, his step light with all of his weight in line behind it; England slammed his arm out quite wildly at him and managed to deflect his fist, pushing the blow aside._

_"Nicely done," America complimented him cheerfully as he twisted his wrist, seized England by his sleeve and whirled them both in a circle to reverse their positions. England stumbled a bit, trying to get his bearings, and America's heel came slamming down on his shoulder from behind. He buckled under the blow and then, without respite, was squarely crunched against the refridgerator by America's foot snapping forwards again and planting itself into the small of his back. England coughed out a gasp, his chest heaving as he pushed against the fridge to hold himself steady, and no sooner was he upright again than America had grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled him offbalance in the other direction._

_"Come on, Artie!" America sang at him. "You were doing so well!"_

_England swung at his face, thinking that he might at least be able to blind him with his nails; America caught his fist and easily pushed him completely offbalance, England stumbling backwards over one of the kitchen chairs to land very hard on his backside. He scrambled back a foot or so and shoved his heel under the seat of the chair, kicking it at America with all of his strength - and America stopped it firmly with his own foot, the wood cracking under the pressure._

_"You got to show off with that cute little table-roll trick," America said warmly. "My turn!"_

_He skipped forwards, planted his hands on the frame of the chair and cartwheeled right over it to use the downward force as a reversed scissor-kick, barely missing England again as he frantically twisted out of the way. America caught his shoulder with his heel, however, and slammed him onto his back, his foot reaching up to press against England's throat and push down, choking him._

_"Come on, Arthur," he said, his tone suddenly serious as he bore all of his weight down upon him. "Remember. You **need **to remember."_

_England, of course, was having a hard time even remembering his own name with America crushing the air out of him. He reached desperately for America's ankle, clawing at the hem of his jeans, as his vision blotched with black and he felt, strangely, as though the floor was beginning to sink beneath him-_

_Yes, it **was **sinking; his elbows slid and so did his heels as he feebly kicked and scraped beneath Alfred's weight and he smelt the familiar dull, wet scent of mud-of battlefield mud, in fact, and he took a breath as he realised that he **recognised **it, truly remembered it, what it felt like when you fell, how it stained you with the proud scars of war-_

_England twisted, slamming the heel of his hand against America's shin and shoving him squarely offbalance; America stumbled off him, mud spraying beneath his boots, as England opened his eyes and sat up._

_The kitchen was gone; and, rather belatedly, in its place was a grey and muddied battlefront, laced in like a corset with frilled peals of barbed wire, liberally scattered with such jewels as broken guns and blown-out tanks halfway in their graves. They were alone, however, for the alignment of their combat-consciousness had produced a battlefield virginally devoid of a single corpse._

_England stood up; he'd been wearing the conjured green uniform - forest-khaki wool he half-remembered - for less than a minute and it was already covered with mud. America too had swapped jeans and a T-shirt for his camel-coloured officer's garb and he looked so achingly familiar in it than England almost hesitated._

_"Hello, England," America drawled pleasantly at him. "It's about time."_

_"You have questionable methods," England said icily, watching him._

_"Of course - I'm America. But!" America grinned. "I got the lock off. I think I did, anyway. You've got that crazy look in your eye now - but I hope you'll be okay with me double-checking."_

_England smirked at him._

_"By all means."_

_America came at him once more - and now England could see how sloppy he was being, just how easy he'd been going on him. America swung and England parried it on his forearm, reversing the blow and smashing his elbow into America's collarbone. America had no sooner stumbled back a single step than England, charged with the sudden thrill of knowing exactly what he was doing, had swung his hips and kicked America once, twice, three times in the solar plexus, sending him rolling helplessly into the mud. America righted himself in the same motion, clumsily skidding onto his feet and plunging upwards to only just block the sharp backhand England was arcing right at his face; he shoved with all of his strength and England stepped back into a pivot and smashed a backswing kick right into America's ribs. His foot snapped back again, the sole of his heavy boot crashing into America's ribcage a second time, and then he was into a low, graceful sweeping kick to upend any sense of gravity America was still clinging to. America toppled like a ton of bricks at England's feet, wheezing._

_"God!" he coughed out. "Either I forgot just how brutal you can be or you're **way **pissed off about me kicking you into the fridge!"_

_"I rather think it's a bit of both," England said coldly. "Don't whine to me, Alfred. You absolutely brought this upon yourself. I'm just giving you a taste of your own medicine - and after all, this is a much fairer fight than it was before."_

_"Well," America gritted out, pushing himself up again, "at least I know I got the combat lock off, right?"_

_"Yes, I think you did," England replied pleasantly; he took America's arm and pulled him forwards, twirling them both in a lazy switch remniscient of a waltz, and then slammed his knee, followed by his foot, into his hapless partner's back. England gave him a firm, open-handed strike right between his shoulderblades but, as America stumbled forwards again, he grabbed England's sleeve and pulled him with him, swinging on him with his strength to toss him to the ground. England rolled, skidded and launched himself in the other direction, slamming his shoulder into America's chest as they came level. They were at each other's throats then, furiously exchanging strikes only for each to be smoothly parried or ruthlessly reversed-_

_America swung at England's chest, knocking him against the front grate of a decimated tank, and then grasped him by the hair before he could recover, bringing his head forward with the obvious intention of slamming his skull back against the tank's metal shell._

_"This'll do," America said sweetly. "Kitchen counter, tank... Whatever's hard enough to get the job done!"_

_England grabbed America's wrist and twisted it so hard and far that he almost snapped his own arm doing it; he certainly dislocated America's, hearing the low, dull pop and feeling the give. America didn't utter a sound - as there was no pain down here, after all - but his grip loosened and his arm fell away, shuddering useless at his side as he gaped at it in shock._

_"Jesus, low fucking blow!" he exclaimed._

_"Says the man trying to crush my skull like a walnut," England replied icily; he turned, hoisted himself up the tank enough to push both feet against the metal grate and then launched himself over America's head, flipping over to land on his feet behind him. America whirled towards him, his arm stiff and dragging, and England grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the tank._

_America simply smiled at him._

_"I missed you," he said. "This is the real you, babe."_

_"Spare me," England said icily, holding him firmly against the tank. "Now what are we going to do about this, Alfred? I think I've made it clear that you won't be breaking my head open any time soon."_

_America still smiled._

_"Artie," he said gently, "you haven't beaten me. You've beaten the **hell **out of me, sure, but you haven't won." He shook his head. "But enough about that for now. Take a look around. Isn't this what you wanted?"_

_"I don't want a world where we're trying to kill one another," England said frostily._

_"But this is the war, Arthur. Not the one from the Forties, of course, but there have been wars where you and I have tried to kill one another. I was at your mercy then, too - but, you see, you didn't win."_

_"Because I felt sorry for you, no doubt," England said. He let go of America's throat, shooting him a disgusted look before drifting away a few steps._

_"Yeah, maybe you did." America rubbed at his neck as he leaned back against the tank. "Geez Louise, I really **did **forget how much of a punch you can pack!"_

_"Well, I **was **the biggest and most powerful empire in the history of the world," England said primly, putting his hands behind his back. He looked around at the scene of their fray, empty and soundless and filthy; it was so familiar. He didn't remember it, exactly, but it still sparked his senses. He knew that he had once lived in a world like this._

_"Arthur," America chirped at him._

_"What, you insufferable brat?" England sighed._

_"Look at me."_

_So England did, glancing rather jadedly over his shoulder towards America; and his green eyes widened in horror. America's body had seeped partway into the tank, his whole right side merging with the metal so that his dislocated arm was no longer a burden to him, becoming instead part of the 105mm extended gun. The machinery grinded in him and his eyes seemed very blue behind the muddy glint of his glasses._

_"Arthur, I can't let you win," he said gently; he put his free hand to the gun, adjusting its monstrous girth so that it was aimed right at England. "Because we both lose if I do."_

_And then he fired._

_-England opened his eyes to find himself lying on the kitchen floor with his head cradled in America's lap. George was rubbing at his limp hand, demanding his attention._

_He had absolutely no idea how he had gotten there._

_"You alright?" America asked, frowning down at him. "You took a weird turn there."_

_"I... I did?" England sat up, rubbing at his forehead. "What happened?"_

_"I'm not sure. You were making the apple pie and then you just... sorta collapsed."_

_"I don't... don't remember that," England said in a low voice. "I don't remember anything, I just... We were talking as I was making the pie and then... nothing."_

_"I think you need to lie down," America said. He rose, lifting England under his back and knees and carrying him out of the kitchen into the living room. George scampered after them, scrambling up onto the arm of the sofa as America laid England down on it. "There. You rest a little. I'll finish up the pie and make you a cup of tea, okay? Don't fret, sweetheart - you're probably just overworking yourself."_

_England simply nodded numbly; America kissed him on the forehead and swept out of the room as George clambered over England's body to nestle into his arms. England sighed, scratching at George's little pointed ears._

_"He's right, you know." America's voice. "**I'm **right. Don't fret, babydoll."_

_England looked sharply in the direction of the voice, expecting to see America leaning around the door again, grinning._

_It **was **America - but not the same one. This one wore a sand-coloured US Army uniform and was leaning against the mantlepiece, watching England with a great amount of interest._

_"I got it," he said, patting the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. "I got what I needed. We're safe now, Artie. We can live happily ever after."_

* * *

><p>...So basically violence<em> is <em>the answer! :3

This story, already admittedly something of a mash-up between _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ and _Inception_, is starting to get a bit of _Neon Genesis Evangelion_ in there too. idk. Just a hunch. o.O

"George", of course, is actually Americat (or Amerikitten!). In fandom I've noticed he usually gets dubbed "Hero" or something along those lines - and they're all great, fitting names for him but I wanted something a little different for _Shatter_, soooo... he's George! C:

Whoooo, so will finish this soon, hopefully! Now that Bletchley Park has been dragged up clearly you can see why this chapter would have been like a million years long had I chosen to write/post it all now. Also I'm hoping to get Word back before I start writing again because this has been a pain in the arse, truly.

Thank you~!

RR xXx


	4. Edge

So I haven't updated this since January, hahaha, and thought I should at least try and get another update in before 2012 ends. XD The fact of the matter is that I was _completely crazy _to think this story would have been completed in two chapters - three and _even four _have proven to fall short of the needed capacity, we shall say. This is the preface to admitting to another of my broken promises: this story will be completed in **five chapters **rather than the promised four. I always underestimate just how much space I'll actually need to coherently weave the story I'm attempting to tell, hence my charmingly naive estimates that always turn out to be lies. Sorry, everyone! DX

With that said, I wrote half of this chapter back in June and ended up having to put it aside in July for other projects - but strived to get it finished for today:** 12/12/12**, the last triple-date we will see for eighty-nine years (the next one will be, I suppose, the first of January 2101: 01/01/01). Soooooo chances are, unless we all live to be well over 100 years old, this is the last one most of us will actually see! o.O

Thanks to all reviewers over the past year: **chasingwhispers, MuSiC HaTs, RockBabi, Isa-chan, Blind Squirrel, Lamashtar Two, CrimsonButterflyTearDrops018 , worldaccordingtofangirls, rae1112, Sunny-Blue-Sky, Psyche Eros, eveliens, jay, LovelyToMeetYou, EmmaFrost13, natcat5, rein hitomi, Mattysones, EuterpeDream, Nevertrustaprussian, thornytress10, Anon-chan, Wenxi, Guest, simplytrop, Luigi1997, fan-fan31, Guest, AnayssaLovesU, celio, monochromevelyn, Tamitan, Gracezilla **and another **Guest**!

_Shatter _- 4/5

Edge

"Is that really how the war was?"

England asked this sceptically, amusedly; drowsy with his head on America's chest. The soft fluff of George's back pillowed against his cheek as he spoke. They were lying on the pastel sofa, America on his back with England and the kitten both sprawled across him, watching a black-and-white war film from the mid forties. It was late evening, the season here beginning to draw well past autumn and into the first sprinklings of crisp winter and they had the thick curtains drawn and the fire crackling gleefully in the grate. At dinner America had nattered happily about how they were going to decorate for Christmas.

Above, in the concrete world which still held fast to their bodies, it was only May; though it had been over a month, it seemed, since they had last seen those same hotel room walls, the pinched, suspicious face of Gregory Hall or the rusted, thinly-veiled impatience of Colonel Bill Clark.

"More or less," America drawled in reply. He had his thumb hooked up under England's shirt and burgundy sweater-vest and was drawing absent-minded little patterns on the small of his back. "I guess the fellas who made this movie took a _little _bit of artistic liberty but yeah, pretty much my guys _were _that awesome in the war."

"Goodness me, Alfred, your humility never ceases to amaze me." England pinched him at his ribs, making him grimace and squirm.

"_Ouch_!" America sucked in a hiss through his teeth. "Jeez, that was uncalled for!"

"No it wasn't." England snuggled against him again. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed without your embellishment. I know I don't remember raising you but I'm sure I taught you better manners than silly bragging."

"Yeah, well, I threw 'em out with your tea." America kissed the top of England's head. "Now settle down - we're just getting to the best part. My guys blow up this huge bridge!"

England exhaled through his nose but quietened, shifting a little to get more comfortable; America took his hand from beneath the shirt fabric shirt to loop his whole arm more comfortably over England's waist. George rolled over his sleep, curling into the space between the crook of America's neck and England's chin. The fire spat, muted by the mumblings of the film England was only half-watching, and their free hands found each other and entangled.

The America - the second one, the one who had leant against the mantle that afternoon and patted his pocket - had been dressed like the soldiers in this film, more-or-less, though this had no colour to speak for its displayed ranks. England frowned at them on the little square screen, milling to and fro in their heavy boots and thick woollen jackets, muddied and ripped under battle's wear; he had not told America about the second version of him, not quite sure how to broach it. Certainly _this _America - the proper one, he supposed - seemed to have no recollection of the fight in the kitchen, nor of the twist in the terrain that had made a killing machine out of him. England concluded, naturally, that it had not _been _the proper America, more of a splinter which had surfaced from a lower frequency than even this to pull England down and beat his battle-skills back into him. Now whether or not _this _America had been the one to engineer the whole thing was quite a different matter - and, as before, England wasn't quite sure how to breach the subject, not when America was either ignorant or feigning it so very well.

And as to the mysterious object which had, to all intents and purposes, allegedly been inside England's head…

Well. Bletchley Park. Colossus. That other America had mentioned both of those and England honestly had no fucking idea what he was talking about.

But he knew now how to fight, at least; on the screen, a young soldier, his dark hair gleaming with well-fashioned slick, overpowered a German gunner and kicked him tumbling into the trench behind - and England's body ached now with muscle-memory because he had done such things, he knew he had because his body sang for them even though he had no recollection.

America flinched suddenly, his hand whipping from England's middle to go to his forehead. He gave a discomfited little grunt, rubbing his fingers against his temple.

"What's the matter?" England asked, sitting up.

"Nothing." America closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "My eyes are just straining, I guess. Wearing my glasses all day can do that to them."

"Take them off, then." England lay down again.

"Well, then I won't be able to see the movie, will I?" America took his glasses by their frames and moved them a precise millimetre or so down his nose. "It's almost over - I'll take them off and give my eyes a rest then."

"Alright, love." England patted America's chest and then scratched George, who had stirred at the sudden movement, behind his little ear.

They went quiet again, America's hand dropping back to drape over England. A tank trundled across the screen and crushed a crate of German military supplies.

"They could have used those," England said.

"Hey, we Americans get stuff done."

"Right." England frowned suddenly. "…Alfred?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I… I thought there wasn't any pain down here." England slowly, cautiously, sat up again. "I-I mean, I know you can… change it so that there _is _but… for the most part… That is to say, well, George scratched me once and I didn't feel a thing but you… when I pinched you, you felt it and just then-"

"Oh, Christ." America bolted upright. "Christ on a goddamn bike." He pushed England off and stumbled off the sofa; England fell back against the cushions, George wailing in his lap at being so rudely evicted from his sleeping spot.

"What's wrong?" England watched America nervously, his sudden change in tone, the abruptness of his actions, setting him on edge.

"Nothing." America flapped his hand at him. "Just be quiet for a second."

"Well, there's obviously _something _wrong," England said crossly, "what with the pain and you suddenly-"

"Arthur, shut _up_!" America's fingertips worried at his creased brow. "Just for a second, okay?" He sucked in a hiss through his teeth. "…I-I think we're under attack."

England blinked.

"From who?" he asked incredulously. "We're the only ones here!"

"Yeah, that's the problem-" America cut himself off with a sharp gasp, staggering against the television as he clawed at his forehead; he gave a shudder, rocking forward as blood burst from his nose and spattered over the screen, the black-and-white soldiers milling about beneath the spray of scarlet.

"Alfred!" England scrambled to him, George springing neatly out of his lap. "Are you alright?!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine-" America coughed, more blood erupting over his bottom lip and sliding down his chin; he gave a high-pitched whine and the right lens of his glasses suddenly splintered with an audible crack.

"You don't look alright." England quickly unknotted his tie and pulled it loose from his collar, using it to mop at America's bloodied face. "I've never known glasses to just do that. You didn't get any glass in your eye?"

"No." America shook his head free and reached to put his hand to England's mouth, stopping him from speaking. "Sshhhh."

They were both silent for a moment; and, over the mumbling of the film, it was clear to hear the low growling of engines pulling up outside, perhaps several dozen, thick tyres crushing their little fence and England's well-bedded shrubs. America took a breath, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve, and rose, motioning with his hand for England to stay where he was; and with that he stole to the window, the bubbling of the fire hiding his gentle footfalls. He slipped his first two fingers between the crack of the curtains and parted them a mere sliver; and then fell away at once as he gave a jolt and whipped towards England again.

"Get down!" he called urgently. He bounded back towards England, almost tripping on the rug, and threw himself into him. "I said _get down_!"

England didn't have much choice either way, sprawled on the thick carpet with America across him; America buried his face against England's shoulder and threw his arms over both of their heads, hunching down as close to the floor as possible just as the windows seemed to implode under a thunderous hail of machinegun fire. The bullets tore throughout the entire room, studding themselves into the walls and making sham-shod lace of the curtains, gutting the sofa so that the filling bloated out onto the carpet. A destroyed painting clattered noisily from the wall; the fire, disturbed, vomited over the hearth; the long art deco mirror over the mantle shattered. It went on for maybe an entire minute, America breathing hard through his bloodied nose as he shielded England-

And then, abruptly, it stopped. Through what was left of the window, framed by the ragged remains of their winter curtains, came the clear calling of harsh military German, no doubt the barking of further orders.

"You alright?" America exhaled and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees; his back was covered in plaster and dust.

"Yes." England coughed a bit as he sat up. "But I'd like to ask, Alfred… ah, what in _bleeding hell_?"

"Oh, it's the Nazis." America got up, hauling England with him by his elbow. "Come on, we have to get moving."

"Excuse me?!" England pulled his arm back incredulously, staring at America in utter disbelief as George, his fur matted with dust, came mewing miserably around his heels. "Did… did you just say the _Nazis_?"

"Yeah," America sighed unhappily. "Well, uh, to be precise… not _really _but right now, for all it matters, yeah, it's the Nazis. Or the German Army, Second World War period. Whatever you wanna call them."

As though to elucidate America's point, there came a guttural shout of German from beyond the window, and with it the clattering of changing rounds and tapping of smart-polished boots.

"So, uh, we need to move," America said, giving England an urgent prod in the back. "Like, right now."

"I assume this isn't your doing?" England asked icily, scooping up George in one hand.

"Of course not!" America cried indignantly; but then he gave a guilty wince. "But I let my guard down. They've, well… _hacked _me, I guess."

"Who have?" England demanded.

America gave an impatient roll of his eyes.

"Clark and Hall, duh. They've been giving us the evil eye for a while now; you can't say you haven't noticed."

"W-well of course I noticed," England began, "but that doesn't explain why two men who worked for the _Allies _during the war, as Hall is so fond of mentioning, would send in the _Nazis_-"

"Artie, baby, I really can't wait to hear your analysis of all this," America interrupted sharply, "but right now isn't the fucking time."

"I-"

"The Krauts giving you trouble, huh?"

England knew this scene: America's voice coming from someone other than America. They both looked towards the television, which was the only thing somehow unscathed; the film was still gallivanting through its narrative, the soldiers milling around that promised bridge, and America - the one in the army uniform - was leaning out of the screen. His lower half, still in the film, was in black-and-white.

"They're kind of my specialty," he went on cheerfully. "Need a hand?"

England gaped at him for a second before glancing at the proper America; who, he was nonplussed to see, didn't seem remotely surprised at the advent of another version of himself hanging out of a television screen.

"That's what you're here for," America said, putting his arm around England's shoulders. "Cover us."

The other America gave him a salute and pulled himself the rest of the way out of the television screen, the grey-shades running off him like water from waxed feathers; he reached back in, however, and fished around out of sight for a moment before grasping something and tugging it out into the living room: a massive sub-machinegun, which he slung over his shoulder as he turned to face the window. A few Nazis in their distinct, crisp uniforms - swastikas like bloodied bandages wrapped around their left arms - had started in through the broken glass, boots crunching on the windowsill.

"I've got this," WWII America said with a grin, heightening his gun. "Go on, get outta here."

America nodded and wasted no more time in forcibly hustling England out into the kitchen, pulling the door behind them; from beyond it, barely muffled, there was a metallic roar as WWII America opened fire on the invading soldiers.

"Good thing I can put the house back the way it was, huh?" America said weakly, leaning against the door. "I wouldn't enjoy tidying all that up."

"I think that's the least of our worries!" England snapped, trying to keep a hold on the squirming kitten in his arms. "Why the hell are there two of you?! A-and why are you so… so _unsurprised_?!"

"_You _should be less surprised," America said calmly, "considering he beat the hell out of you earlier."

"So you _do _remember that!"

"Sort of. I implemented it." America winced as there was an almighty explosion behind the door. "It was necessary, though I'm sorry all the same, if it means anything. He, uh, doesn't have the best personality."

"He's you," England said witheringly.

But America shook his head.

"Actually, he's not," he replied. "Not exactly. He's a dummy-code projection designed to be… well, something of a bodyguard or a barrier, I guess. He's a copy of me but only with my memories of fighting, war, stuff like that, because that's all he needs. There's literally nothing else to his personality."

England gave a nod of understanding; but then frowned, watching America guardedly.

"But you wanted me to remember how to fight," he said. "So… why do we need him? Surely… you wanted me to remember in case something like this happened?"

America shook his head again.

"Not exactly," he said distractedly. "I was hoping the fight would be on _my _terms."

England hesitated; America looked at him over his cracked glasses.

"You… were going to attack the calculating system," England said slowly.

"_We _were." America held his gaze. "You and I. Together." He paused himself, looking to the gleaming chrome fridge. "And we were going to goddamn win."

"…But they knew."

"Yeah, seems like it." America blew out upwards, ruffling his fair hair. "Clark's smarter than I gave him credit for."

"Can't we still?" England asked desperately.

"We're not ready. We… we wouldn't win, not like this. They know it - that's why they attacked us now."

England breathed out, looking at the floor for a moment.

"Then what the hell do we do?" he asked bitterly.

"We get out of here alive, that's what."

America stepped away from the kitchen door just as it was blown squarely off its hinges, buckling its way into the spacious kitchen with a spiral of splintered wood in its wake. England backed against the sideboard, America scrambling to join him, as three Nazis barrelled into the kitchen, their guns glossy in the light. One barked an order and raised his arm and the other two squared off their pistols, one each at America and England-

America seized England's wrist and pulled him into a sprint behind the kitchen island and across to the opposite door; the bullets went clanging and denting off chrome and stainless steel and - on their missing - the first soldier shrieked something else-

The three of them buckled under the line of bullets rinsed through them by WWII America's machinegun; they crumpled, lifeless (as was the custom of soldiers near torn clean in half) as their killer sprang over them and whirled his gun on the seething mass of their fellows pouring at his heels. America wrenched open the far door and sent it swinging violently against the wall, bursting into the hall with England close behind. The front door was in the process of being battered in by a tank (which had made short work of their quaint gingerbread porch) and it toppled, the stained glass roses bursting into a thousand pieces, as they reached the foot of the stairs. England stopped, really beginning to panic as dozens more Nazis began spilling forth into the hallway of their only safe-haven.

"_Go_, Arthur!"

America started to shove him up the staircase; England stumbled and caught the banister, George mewling, terrified, in his grasp. The first few soldiers headed straight for the stairs, unholstering their pistols: America, two steps lower than England, whirled and kicked the closest one back, knocking him into another. The others kept coming - but then WWII America was upon them, sprinting the length of the hall and plastering those who dared advance against the wall with their own gore. They began, it seemed, to disintegrate, whole parts of their corpses being eaten away by oblivion. This did not stop the advance of more, of course, and WWII America turned, swinging his machinegun with him - only for it to be parried and seized upon by a dozen Nazis. It was wrestled out of his grasp and suddenly, far too quickly, he was unarmed and overrun by Nazis on all sides, unable to fight them all off, though he took two or three down with him, broken-nosed and bloody-jawed, as he was dragged under by a massive wave of them with their blood-rag bands, bayonets flashing, pistols clicking and cracking-

America buckled on the stairs, grabbing blindly at the banister as his entire body gave a shudder; fresh blood sluiced over his face from his nose and he coughed violently.

"Alfred!" England let go of George - who sprang away up the stairs and vanished - and scrambled back to America's side.

"I'm fine, I'm fine - him getting killed packs a punch, that's all," America huffed, spitting out a mouthful of blood onto the carpet. "God_damn_ it! Didn't… didn't expect him to get torn apart so easily…" He peeled himself halfway off the stairs, nudging at England. "Jesus, Arthur, _go_, will you?!"

But England was looking past him, freezing as he watched one of the soldiers stand and step back from what was left of the WWII dummy-code America; a tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp, handsome features, blue-eyed and platinum-haired-

"Ludwig?" Stunned, England stepped over America and started down the staircase, one hand on the banister. "They… they killed you, didn't they?"

Germany didn't answer; though he clearly responded, looking towards England, who paused on the third step from the bottom and looked at him in utter disbelief. Germany gave a motion to the others, still clustered around the corpse of the destroyed double, and came forward on his own. Guarded, England stepped back, tensing; he met Germany's gaze.

"Executed." Germany spoke suddenly, his thick accent wrapping around the word. "I was executed." His white hand went to his belt, from which he pulled in a single clean motion a bayonet which threaded an aria upon the air, so finely honed was its edge. "For good reason, I must agree. Feliciano and I were rightly punished for our defiance."

At this his arm swung forward, powerful and straight-lined; England pulled back, throwing himself against the banister to get out of the way by the merest of millimetres, and then America was there, slamming his elbow into Germany's throat. Germany stumbled and America kicked him squarely in the chest for good measure.

"Are you _insane_?!" America cried angrily at England, rounding on him. "It's not really him!"

"Why is he here?" England demanded.

"That's not-"

Germany slammed the bayonet into America's ribcage, cutting him off; America gave a strangled gasp and grabbed at England, snatching at his collar. Germany paused for a long moment, his blue eyes monstrously bright, before giving a yank and dragging the serrated blade back out of America's body with a twist that sent an arc of blood up over the wallpaper - America gave a stifled shriek of pain and wrapped his arm around the shredded wound, sagging in England's readied arms.

Germany tossed the blade from one hand neatly to the other, drawing it back to plunge it into America's spine; England seized his wrist as it dropped, stopping it dead. Germany regarded him with some surprise, meeting his gaze as he struggled to make the blow count - but England did not exert himself over keeping him at bay, barely flexing a muscle. He simply held Germany's wrist and, beneath his fingers, it was clear that the limb was beginning to fade, brushing away into a nothingness which crawled like a parasite over Germany's arm. Germany did not regard it with any real alarm.

"Using that will only prolong it," he said calmly. "You will not win."

Stunned, England snatched his hand back, looking at his palm in shock. Germany stood, his entire arm vanishing and starting into his chest.

"Arthur!" America gasped urgently, hauling himself up one-handed on the banister; he was bleeding very badly, his hand clutching at his ribs.

England, startled, tore his gaze away from Germany and turned back to America, reaching to grasp his arm and throw it over his own shoulders, hauling him up; together they began an uncoordinated two-step scramble up the staircase, America flagging terribly. Germany - or what was left of him - gave a bark of an order and the obedient Nazis wasted no time in surging forward, pooling at the bottom of the stairs and beginning to crush up them.

"Wait, wait…!" America grabbed the post at the top of the stairs and looked towards the entire army thundering up after them; he took a ragged breath and the whole staircase fell away, the dozens of soldiers succumbing to the suddenness of the nothing below in a mad flailing of red-labelled limbs.

"Go," America gasped, sagging in England's grasp. "Get in the… the bedroom, there'll be more of 'em…!"

England nodded, heaving America with him down the hall, a crimson ribbon weaving after them. There was more barking of German down in the entrance hall, accompanied by a round of heavy clicks, safeties unlocking and barrels leaping into position. England put a burst of strength into the last few steps, America holding his own weight as best he could, and came to the bedroom door, fumbling with the handle. America gave a deep exhale, his head dipping, and England shoved the handle down and threw the door open; George, who was quivering outside it, bolted around the doorframe as they fell through into the room. America sank to his knees with a groan, clasping at his wound, as England whirled and slammed the door shut behind them, locking it. America sank back against it with a bodily thud, groaning in agony.

"_Fuck_," he hissed, clutching at his ribcage; a massive deep wet red stain was spreading the entire width of his broad chest and beginning to soak over his belly. "Oh _lord_…"

"I'm so sorry, Alfred!" England fell to his knees, frantic. "If I hadn't… it was just… _Ludwig_ a-and I-"

"It wasn't your fault," America breathed. He grunted, shifting, and closed his eyes. "But stop being so goddamn stupid all the same, okay, sugarbun?" His head fell back against the door and he took another deep breath, trying to rally himself. "N-now come on, we gotta… gotta get out of here…"

He pushed forward, trying to rise, and couldn't pull the strength together, giving a frustrated keen of pain as he sank back. The blood kept coming under his white hands, spreading with no sign at all of slowing.

"You can't go anywhere like this," England said shakily; he touched America's face, running his fingertips over his cheek. "Here, let me… let me try and stop the bleeding…"

"I let my guard down," America gritted out as England reached for a discarded shirt flung over the chair and wadded it up.

"You were saving my neck," England replied tersely, moving America's hands and pressing the balled shirt to the wound.

"N-not that." America shook his head, swallowing with difficulty. "I-I mean the whole… whole thing, them getting in... in the first place, my… my, uh… dummy-code guy getting overpowered so easily… I didn't think they'd… they'd…"

America was clearly having trouble even forming coherent thoughts now, falling quiet and still after a moment's struggle to articulate; England him gave a sharp little smack on the cheek, once, twice, to rouse him, trying not to panic.

"Alfred!" He stroked his cheek reassuringly, breathing a sigh of relief when he opened his blue eyes again. "Come on, stay awake for me, there's a good lad."

"I shouldn't… shouldn't be this badly wounded," America whispered, tilting his head drowsily to one side. "N-not down here…" His eyes slid closed again behind his cracked glasses. "God, Arthur, I think… I think I m-might be…"

"That's enough," England said crisply, throwing aside the new shirt. "Stop talking like that. Enough of… of crying 'God!', even for me…"

"It hurts… so much…"

"I know, poppet." England distractedly began to undo America's shirt buttons with bloodied, slipping fingers. "Just hang on, alright? Just for a moment." He threw the wet shirt open and peeled it away from the deep trench of a wound snugly between two of America's ribs; the skin around it was shredded from the edge of the bayonet's blade.

"I… can probably sew it up," England went on faintly. "It's not ideal but-"

"We don't… h-have time." America tried to push himself up again, fighting against the pain. "We… we have to-"

"_Stay put_!" England snapped, losing his patience. "You've already lost so much blood!" He put his hand firmly against America's chest and pushed him back against the door-

His arm gave a little jolt and he drew it back in alarm, looking from his blood-sticky hand to America's wound as it suddenly and visibly began to close itself up, the skin whispering back together and sealing. America gave a surprised exhale and let his hand drop away, at once straightening up and opening his eyes. He looked down at his side, which - but for the blood - bore no trace whatsoever of the knife.

"You're… using it," he said weakly, looking up at England. "I thought it was just a coincidence with that fake Ludwig but…"

"I… I'm using what?" England turned his hand over, staring in disbelief at his stained skin, his clotted fingernails.

"Colossus." America got up and stepped past him, shrugging out of his soaked shirt, his battered Union musket cross plastered to his chest with blood. "I'm surprised."

"That's what Ludwig meant too, isn't it?" England demanded, glaring at him. "When he said using… well, '_that' _would only prolong-"

"It wasn't Ludwig, Arthur." America pulled out a clean shirt and hurriedly threw it on, his gory fingers slipping on the buttons. "They used his likeness to rattle us - just like they're using the Nazis. Pretty cowardly, if you ask me, using a tried-and-tested villain for this piece - not to mention counter-productive. I mean… we're not very likely to surrender to the Nazis, right? Especially not when we beat them back in '45."

"What's Colossus, Alfred?" England snapped, determined not to be distracted.

"It's a computer," America said lightly. "A digital, programmable one, in fact - the first of its kind and one of our greatest weapons against the Axis Powers."

England shook his head confusedly.

"But… but how could I be _using _it? I mean, I don't even _remember_-"

"You're the blueprint." America paused, frowning. "Well, sort of. More like the blueprint of the original model is in your head - that's what I needed outta your skull. They used to hook you up and have you breaking codes for them."

England simply blinked at him.

"…I beg your pardon?"

A sudden loud explosion thundered through the house, shaking it to its very foundations; the floor shuddered and the light swung violently from the ceiling.

"I think that's our cue to get the hell out of here," America said distractedly, pulling out his familiar leather bomber jacket from the closet and swinging it on; he snatched his chunky grey cardigan from the hanger next to it and came to England, taking him by the elbow and pulling him up. "Come on, we'll go out the window. Put this on - it'll be cold out." He put it on him, hastily doing up two of the buttons. "There now; come on." He took England's hand and pulled him. "Come _on_."

They quickly pulled on shoes, America simply jamming his laces down the sides, and then England hadn't much choice but to follow him across the bedroom to the window, pausing once to catch up George from where he was lurking, fluffed up, under the foot of the bed. America took the tiny kitten from him and put him in the large inside pocket of his bomber jacket to keep him safe.

"Stand there," America instructed nonchalantly, pushing England flat against the wall. "You might wanna cover your face."

"Cover my…?"

"Flying glass, you know?" America lifted the bedside unit and hoisted it easily over his head.

"O-oh, yes, I… I quite see," England said faintly; he did as advised, crossing his arms over his face as America winged the cabinet through the window with an almighty crash. It tumbled, glass tinkling in its wake, down over the red tiles of the roof and onto the porch covering.

The room shook again beneath their feet and then a huge fissure thundered suddenly across the ceiling and down the wall; half of the floor gave out and slid away and the bed went vanishing with it, disappearing into the abyss of the gleaming mint kitchen below.

"Go, go!" America urged, seizing England by the elbow and hoisting him forward; they scrambled over the radiator, near pulling it from the wall, and then were through the ragged frame of glass and onto the roof.

It was something of a slope, one that didn't allow much of a foothold, and they slid-stumbled down it to leap onto the porch roof next to the battered cabinet. England straightened, exhaling deeply and tugging his arm free from America's vice-grip. It was a cold, clear night, the kind that would leave a glitter of pretty frost come morning, with a crisp white moon and powder-puffs accompanying their every ragged breath.

The front garden, of course, was swarming with Nazis.

"There's a tank in my flowerbed," England said icily.

"Good thing you don't have any flowers right now then, huh?" America was distracted, searching for something; he grinned when he spotted it. "Ah, there it is!"

"There's what?" England asked warily.

"Our Jeep." America pointed to the monster of an army vehicle - an American 1940s Willys MB - out-of-place next the lines of neat, sleek silver creatures either side of the street, parked just beyond their little white fence. "Glad they didn't destroy that, at least! It's a last resort, really - I built it in as an escape. It only appears after my dummy-code gets defeated by an attack on this scale."

"Excellent. You truly think of everything, Alfred."

"I try, babe."

"But, ah…" England looked at him pointedly. "…Do you think you could bring it a little bit closer?" He gestured down at the garden. "It's just that there are all these fellows between us and it and I don't think they're going to be so kind as to just let us walk over and get in."

"Haha, probably not." America stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled to the Jeep, calling it piercingly like a dog; and the Jeep responded, its headlights flaring on, and it rumbled to life, its steering wheel spinning on its own as it swung towards the house and then lurched forward. It ploughed over the picket fence, knocking it flat, and began to careen up the path-

A Nazi officer opened fire on them, several others following his lead; America dropped, flinging England down with him with the cabinet to shield them - and, with his concentration lost, the Jeep spun out of control and went crashing into the mailbox, snapping its stem.

"Sorry!" America said over the _rat-tat-tat _roar of gunfire, his mouth next to England's ear. "I tried!"

"How the hell are we going to get down with them shooting at us like this?!" England demanded. "We don't even have any weapons of our own! Can't you… I don't know, conjure us up some?!"

"'Fraid not!" America put his hands over his ears. "I've been hacked - I'm no longer controlling the "data", if you will, in this constructed world! I can't conjure us up anything, all the spare data has been used to create the Nazi army attacking us!"

"Then what about the Jeep?!"

"The Jeep was already here, I told you! I programmed it into the make-up of this construction in case we needed an escape!"

"Then-"

"The best we can do," America went on, "is to wrestle the weapons off the Nazis and use them against them!"

The shooting suddenly stopped, the silence seeming overbearing in its break-off absence.

"Are we safe to try an escape attempt?" England asked breathlessly as America gingerly raised himself and peeked over the edge of the ruined bedside unit.

"Uh, no," America replied nonchalantly. "Not exactly. I'd, uh… we should… probably get back down, to be honest." He put his hand between England's shoulder blades and pushed him flat again, scrambling next to him with his arms over his head. "Brace yourself!"

The porch roof shuddered violently beneath them as a tank in the middle of the front garden fired off straight at the house, the high-caliber projectile ploughing right through and into the heart of the building. It exploded with a dull tearing sound and the house burst outwards, showering bricks and glass and wood all over the garden; the porch tore away from its moorings and lurched sideways towards the ground, tipping America, England and the bullet-riddled cabinet off into the remains of the rosebushes. They barely had time to right themselves, America grumbling in pain, before the Nazis were upon them.

"Stay close!" America called as he punched one straight in the face, sending him reeling, and snatched up a piece of wood to smash into the side of another's head. "Getting to the Jeep is our priority!"

England nodded, facing off his own assailants as America wrestled away a machine-gun and turned it on the swarming Germans. England slammed his forearm against the gun crowded closest to him, knocking it aside, and seized its owner by the front of his uniform, pulling him close enough to deftly swipe the issue pistol from his belt-holster. In a well-versed instant he had the safety off and had dispatched the Nazi with a single shot and turned it on three or four others, toppling them like dominoes.

"I prefer pistols," he said when America glanced quizzically at him. "I… I remember that I prefer them."

America smiled at him as he slammed the butt of his machine-gun into the throat of an oncoming Nazi.

"Yeah, you do," he replied happily. "You're an ace shot with 'em." He grabbed another of their attackers by the tie and threw him effortlessly aside. "Come on, let's get outta here!"

He turned to sprint away, making for the Jeep; England shot another three Nazis, lingering a little over the victory, before following through their ruined garden, taking long leaps over chunks of rubble and saddened limbs of once-pastel furniture. He was following the white '50', the brightest thing under the moon, and was so fixated on it that he didn't expect to suddenly stumble over nothing, the ground seeming to give out under him. A shot of pain seared through his skull and he caught himself with one hand, the other - still holding the pistol - pressing to his temple. He shook his head, the pain easing, and looked up; realising with a sinking feeling in his belly that the garden was gone and he was completely on his own in an absolute oblivion of nothing.

"Alfred?!" he called breathlessly. "Alfred, what happened?!"

"Alfred isn't here," came a familiar growl of a voice behind him. "This place is safe."

England whirled, his pistol readied, and the blackness shifted with his motion into an office that - upon seeing it - he suddenly remembered. There was a broad desk and, behind it, sat Winston Churchill, at least a good decade younger than he should have been.

"Mr Churchill!" England lowered his gun to his side. "You… I don't understand, how can you be here?"

Churchill reached for his cigar.

"My dear fellow," he drawled, "this is an intervention. Where exactly is it that you are trying to escape to with the charming Mr Jones?"

"I… I, uh…" England simply blinked at him, floored. He didn't even know the answer, it was true, but how Churchill could even _be _here - if it was him at all - had left him more-or-less speechless.

"We must ask you to stop running," Churchill went on, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Won't you, Arthur? You must know that it is fruitless; indeed, even damaging. I would implore you to surrender."

England shook his head.

"With respect, sir, I won't," he said.

"You must," Churchill replied. "Have you no care for our future? The containment of nations is the prevention of war." He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a printed sheet and a gold pen, placing them on the desk. He pushed them towards England, who read the words 'Conditions of Surrender' and backed away, raising his stolen pistol once more, suspicion dawning brightly over him.

"Now come, sign your name and be done with it," Churchill pressed. "Surrender, Arthur."

"I won't," England said again. "Not to you."

Churchill raised his eyebrows.

"Not to the man who gave his blood, sweat and tears to you during the war?"

"I might to him," England said pleasantly, "but not to you, Mr Hall."

America stepped through the wall at this, wielding the broken mailbox - which he promptly buried into the back of Churchill's head. Churchill collapsed, disintegrating, and the wartime office wavered and faded, leaving them in the garden once more.

"You just hit a likeness of my boss with a postbox," England said faintly, looking up at Alfred.

"You're welcome!" America replied chirpily. "As it was, I couldn't get near you until you outright rejected him as a projection of Hall's."

England gave a snort.

"As if Churchill would ever blather on about wanting to prevent war," he said dryly.

America's smile broadened.

"You remember that," he said, beginning tug his arm. "You remember what a war-mongering harpy he is."

"…Yes." England's furrowed brow lifted in surprise. "Yes, I do. A-and the pistol, too, I remember!"

"It's war stuff," America said as they came to the Jeep; the Nazis were clustering together again, drawing closer in reassembled draggles. "It must be filtering back in now that the combat lock is broken. It's a start!"

He swung open the door and hopped in, England following his lead and sinking heavily back against the leather seat. They slammed the doors shut and locked them and America let George out of his pocket; the kitten's fur was wild and his eyes were huge with terror as he fled under the seat.

"Ready?" America had already twisted the keys in the ignition, letting the heavy-duty engine purr into life like a roused tiger.

"Is now the time for politeness?" England replied testily, snapping open the pistol to have a look at how many bullets were left. "Floor it, idiot."

"You got it." America slammed his foot down and pulled the wheel hard over, the Jeep lurching over the flattened white picket fence and swerving into the street. He straightened up nonchalantly, knocking the wing-mirror off one of the fake ruby-red convertibles, and then there were gone, bolting for the horizon in a shell of steel and canvas.

The houses peeled by in mute-coloured strips, seeming to merge into one ribbon of windows and doors and fences; England watched them go in the wing mirror before noting gloomily that, of course, the road behind them was not empty.

"They're chasing us," he said, looking at America.

"I know." America checked the rear view. "They're outta range, though. I'm gonna try and shake them off before they get too close."

"And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?" England asked archly. "There's nowhere to go but more suburb."

"Oh, ye of little faith." America grinned at him. "The best part about false realities is that you can bend the rules."

His hand moved to the ignition, eyes trained on the lumbering tanks behind them all the while; some smaller vehicles, Kuebelwagons and the like, had weaved out in front now, speeding after them with guns lining up.

"Got your seatbelt on?" he asked sweetly.

"There aren't any."

"Ah." America only laughed. "Well, hang onto something then, okay?"

"Like what?!" England demanded.

But America was no longer listening; his fingers clamped harder still on the key and he forced it to turn another notch in the ignition, an action which took effort enough that the tendons in his hand corded and strained. It went, though, with a shuddering grind and the Jeep lurched beneath them before the picture-perfect street suddenly fell away and they were in blackness. The Jeep, it seemed, was in some sort of freefall, suspended delicately between one plane of fake existence and the next; and the blackness, too, was not so deep as be nothingness but instead threaded through with glints like stars, too far to touch.

"Where-?" England began, only to have America quickly and roughly slam a hand over his mouth.

"Don't speak," he said in a low voice. "You'll break my concentration."

One star gleamed brighter now; and it shimmered and split, threading a bright line across the darkness that grew into a world for them to fall into. The Jeep snapped out of stillness and hit the ground, old suspension jarring enough to fling them both back against their seats. They paused, breathless, and listened to the strange sound of heavy rain pounding on the canvas roof.

"Christ." America opened his eyes. "We're too early." He pushed up his cracked glasses. "...You spoke and I stopped us here."

"Sorry." England was somewhat indifferent, having no idea what the hell was going on. "We're too early for what?"

"The Frontier." America clenched his fists on the steering wheel in frustration. "Manifest Destiny. Westward." A sigh. "That's what I was going for - but you spoke and we stopped here instead." Now he smiled. "...It _would _be here, wouldn't it?"

"Where are we?" England asked crossly.

"Nowhere. It's just a memory, after all." America drummed his fingers on the steering wheel thoughtfully. "...I can still get us out West from here."

"This is your memory?" England asked, looking out of the low window to the grey horizon, the muddied field, the littering of red and blue bodies.

"It's a shared one - it's something we both experienced."

"I don't recognise it."

"I know you don't." America leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't sweat it. It's not your fault. Just stay here a moment, okay?"

England gave a nod and America opened the door, stepping out into the mud and vanishing around the back of the Jeep. He rustled around, England seeing him at both sides, before suddenly the canvas roof moved away, America dragging it off and balling it up to toss it in the back.

"What the hell are you doing now?" England asked in exasperation. "It's bloody raining!"

"I need you to do something for me," America replied calmly. He was rummaging around in the back for something else now.

England sat and waited for him with his arms folded, not pleased to be getting so wet. He could hear the booms of cannonfire echoing over the empty horizon, the shrill whinnies of dying horses and the clatter of old guns. The battlefield seemed so terribly static, however, as though this was the aftermath and they in the middle of it, this leftover carnage. He rose, stepping onto the seat with one hand on the back of it and the other on the windshield, to better see the purgatory America insisted belonged to them both. A little way beyond them, in the midst of a sea of the fallen, stood the straggled remains of the two sides, still in neat formation like little rows of toy soldiers. It had an archaic romance about it, a sense of a history that he might not have believed had he not seen it for himself - and it was clear that he _had _seen it for himself, there being no denying that, in the swarm of Redcoats, he was there. His younger self, saddened and angry, stood with the mud thickly up over his boots and held his battered old Brown Bess to the throat of a young man in blue. Teenaged America, his face seeming rounder still in the absence of the glasses England knew him to wear, was unarmed.

He couldn't hear what they were saying.

"What are you looking at?" America asked nonchalantly; he was back with a massive battle rifle hooked over his shoulder.

"Me holding you at gunpoint," England replied.

"Oh, that." America waved his hand as he got back into the Jeep and slammed the door. "Don't worry, it resolves itself."

The England in red dropped his gun as he spoke, sliding to his knees in the mud with his face in his hands. America nodded towards him knowingly.

"See? You were an old soft touch. Now here." He thrust the huge rifle at England, who caught it out of reflex. "They're gonna be on our tail again at any moment. I need you to shoot 'em."

"I don't know how to fire this!" England said incredulously.

"Yes you do." America adjusted the rear view as he started the engine again. "Here they come. I didn't think we'd lose 'em for long."

The engine roared into life again and mud sprayed up beneath their wheels as they swerved into motion once more, this 1940s monster racing through the debris of the 1700s, crunching over broken blunderbuss' and dented cannonballs and dead horses. England, still standing, fumbled with the gun as the Nazi tanks and Kuebelwagons emerged over the splintered horizon.

"Safety's off!" America called to him. "And so is your combat lock!" He grinned at him in the rear view. "Just do it. I trust you."

England exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment; Amrica was so certain that somewhere, recently unearthed, was the knowledge and the memory to use this weapon. That would just have be enough for him, then.

"I trust you, too," he replied, opening his eyes again. He hefted the rifle into position, its weight familiar, and watched and waited.

A small Kuebelwagon, lighter and faster than their Willys MB, sped along to tail them on their right; there were three occupants, one driving and two armed. America swerved sharply to put them out of range, levelling up as England lined up the sight and braced himself. The gun, he recalled, was semi-automatic with a bit of a kickback; he aimed, sensing that America was holding the Jeep as steady as he could, and fired. It went off with a crack, the discarded shell spiralling out over the window, and the passenger shooter convulsed and went still, blood spraying against the windshield. The merest of adjustments, then, and he took out the second.

These were not real men, of course - and so were not equipped with any manner of common sense or survival instinct. The driver, instead of pulling back, unholstered his own pistol and leaned forward over the wheel-

The third shot shattered the windshield and the driver slumped over the dashboard as the Kuebelwagon spun out of control and upended, landing in the mud on its bonnet as they left it far behind.

England breathed out again, exihilarated with success. America was smiling smugly as he drove.

"Told ya."

"Excuse me for not knowing I could snipe three Nazis at high speed," England replied cattily.

America laughed.

"Well," he said cheerfully, "at least you're getting the excitement you wanted." Another check of the mirror. "You want to get rid of that tank? I think it's gonna fire on us."

England glanced at him irritably.

"How am I supposed to take out a tank with _this_?!" he demanded. "We'd need at least a shell-"

"My memory, my reality, my rules," America interrupted cheerily; he glanced back over his shoulder, first at England and then at the tank. His face fell. "Ah, Christ...! Mind your head!"

The tank fired at them with an earth-shattering boom, the shell seeming to cleave the very air in two as it tore straight at them; America threw all of his weight onto the wheel and the Jeep turned so sharply that it tumbled clear over, rattling as it righted itself beneath a wave of mud sent up by the explosion.

"I don't even want to know how you did that," England said faintly, straightening gingerly and wiping his face clean.

"Just shoot, godammit!" America said shrilly, flooring the Jeep to make it race and skid through the carved-up mud.

"Alright, keep your knickers on!" There was so much mud in England's flaxen hair that when he pushed it back out of his eyes, it stayed there as though oiled back; better for his eyesight, though, as he hoisted the rifle once more and aimed. It was a much easier shot than before; and though he actually doubted the bullet would do anything other than bounce off, he fired a good clean shot right at the turret.

Despite America's smugness at being able to bend and break Physics to his mastery, England was still stunned when the tank exploded; he ducked back into his seat as the debris began its descent, vast pieces of metal sheeting and burnt bits of machinery hailing into the mud all around them. Part of the tank's gun bounced off their bonnet and spiralled off to the side. America simply gave a delighted laugh.

"Nice shot!" he complimented him.

"You're off your bleeding rocker, Alfred," England muttered in reply.

He slid back into his seat properly, the rifle across his lap, as they drove into a lightening plane; the rain had stopped and the sky grew bluer by the second, seeming to arch high above them. There wasn't a single cloud and the air was sweet and fresh and sharp. There was no road, only the lush green of untouched earth stretched before them. The fake Nazis were nowhere to be seen and it was only them in their muddied Jeep on the vast expanse all the way to the horizon.

"This is the beginning of the dream," America said calmly, looking to England. "The unsullied Frontier, the call of Manifest Destiny. It's not endless, of course, but the promise of it is."

England put aside the rifle, standing again; he put one palm on the edge of the windshield and the other to his face, shading his eyes as he looked up to the sun. The wide shadow of an eagle soared over them and swooped ahead as lightly as a dandelion seed.

"How typical," England said dryly, his hand dropping to tousle fondly at America's windswept hair.

"Hey," America replied gently, "this is _my _dream. I _am _America, after all."

"I don't much care for America." England looked down at him. "...But I like Alfred Jones very much."

"And Alfred Jones likes Arthur Kirkland." America smiled, taking a hand off the steering wheel and reaching to grasp England's, giving his knuckles a quick kiss. "That's why we have to get away no matter what."

"But how far can we go?" England asked. "You said yourself it's not endless-"

"As far as we need," America interrupted determinedly. "The American Dream _is_, of course, that all men can make their own way."

"Then we're truly not Columbus' world," England said softly, "even if there is an edge."

"Heh." America grinned. "You're right - because after the edge, Arthur, there is the fall."

England touched his cheek briefly before taking his hand back, fingernails filthy with blood and mud gripping the glass of the windshield. He had one foot to the dashboard now, the wind blowing the mud out of his hair, as they tore into the endless blue. These were the sweeping prairies of the American West, the newness of untouched land in lush and blooming greens, with mist-purple mountains looming against the horizon. These were the lands many men had lost their lives to claim, chasing the promises of wildest richest and freedom. He had no memory of being a nation whatsoever but this feeling was embryonic and deep, something he knew; the verge of discovery, the stretch of the world far beyond his own borders, the journey into the vast unknown. This, he supposed, was why he had been a pirate and then an empire. It was a greed and a thirst all the same to them. Their curiosity as creatures defined them.

Alas; America had promised that it was not endless and so it wasn't - though England had not expected it to end quite as it did. The earth before them gave a sudden heave and tore mightily, all manner of battlefield debris beginning to vomit from the fissure, rusted barbed wire and battered vehicles and a huge tank tread-first like a hellborn beast. America cursed and slammed on the brakes, making the Jeep grind and swing bodily, the tyres screeching. It rammed sideways into the tank and stopped dead, America being flung into the steering wheel and England losing his balance to tumble headlong over the bonnet and land, crumpled, on the ground.

It hurt; it hurt like hell, America's banishment of pain long overidden, and England struggled to push himself up with one hand, tasting blood. The Nazis, many of them only half-formed, were heaving from the twisted obstacle, winding through impossible gaps with gnarled limbs and sightless eyes. One, with barbed wire spiralling from his body like entrails, went to the Jeep and wrenched the door open. He seized America by the fur of his bomber jacket and hauled him out, throwing him against the bonnet.

America was barely conscious, his glasses completely shattered and his chin stained with blood. His breathing rasped as though he'd broken several ribs against the wheel. England, who was in better shape despite having been thrown from the vehicle, fought to right himself, dragging himself to his knees. The Nazis were far swifter now, however: America's captor lost no time in unholstering his pistol and pressing the barrel to the back of his blonde skull.

"No, wait-!" England heaved himself up but was much too late; the Nazi pulled the trigger and blew America's brains out all over the bonnet of his Willys MB, the gore sluicing down into the gaps in the grille.

"Alfred!" England scrambled to his lifeless body, elbowing the Nazi out of the way. "Oh, god...!" He clamped a hand to his mouth to silence the shriek of horror threatening to well over his bottom lip at the sight of the hole blasted clean through the front of America's forehead. "Shit, Alfred, _no_...!"

The broken Nazis were started to close around them, pistols hissing over holsters and barrels twirling with sharp sighs. England glanced briefly at them before blind panic took hold of him and he seized America, hauling his body into his arms.

"You make the rules down here!" he cried, buckling beneath America's dead weight; he slid to his knees and America came down with him, slumped lifelessly in his arms. "This... this is your dream, Alfred. This is... your world to make and break as you wish." His shoulders sagged as he bent over America, their foreheads almost touching. "Get up. This isn't real so..." The safeties clicked off like a round. England touched his brow to America's blood-burst one, his eyes squeezed shut. "...Please get up, Alfred."

He waited for the chorus of gunfire, clutching at America, feeling the soft leather clenched tightly in his fists; willing and willing him to waken, to open his eyes, to smile. Down here he could not accept death, not after the wizardry he knew America was capable of in a world of his own making.

get up get up get up _god damn you get up _you know I won't accept anything less-

"My, you're just full of surprises today, huh?" America grinned up at him. "Hauling me back from hell."

"Alfred!" England dragged him upright, grasping his fur collar. "I... thank god!" He threw his arms around his neck. "I didn't... didn't know how long it would take for you to waken."

"I didn't wake by myself." America sounded amused. "You did it." He reached behind Arthur and touched something, walking his fingers down the length of it. "...Hello, Britannia Angel."

"What?" England pulled back, looking at him in confusion. "What on _earth _is Britannia Angel?"

"You." America was grinning. "Or, at least, it was the codename they gave you when you were using Colossus. Looked like you had wings, you know, when you were all hooked up."

He reached back and took hold of the delicate, near-translucent wings flowering from England's shoulderblades now, opening them out. They had a shape like a frothed fan, as though several pairs folded beneath one another to ape some Medieval Biblical avenger.

"Kinda like this, I guess," America went on conversationally, jiggling them a little bit. "I didn't expect to see you mimic them down here, though."

"What...?!" England looked at his wings in horror. "Why the fuck do I have _wings_?"

"Because you just broke the code on me." America stood, pulling England with him by the hand. "I just got taken out of the game - but you weren't having it. You hacked the "death" data surrounding me and reversed it." He pointed to the Nazis, who all stood in formation with their weapons still raised - but they hadn't fired, regarding America's revival and England's wings with a trepidation borne from their controllers. "Looks like you took Hall and Clark by surprise!"

"I don't-"

"And now, if it's okay with you, I'm gonna borrow a bit of your power." America squeezed England's hand tightly in his, his blue eyes positively glowing behind his ruined glasses. Both they and his smile were electric, as though whatever power that he coveted in England was now flowing through him, setting his every nerve alight.

He turned wildly and flung himself at the Nazis, still clutching England's hand; and then they were in the thick of it, America plunging his hand right through the same wire-entrailed specimen and watching him disintegrate at his very touch - just as Germany had at England's. The data holding their assailants together simply fell apart at America's touch, the code-breaking technology of Colossus surging through their grasped hands to leave behind nothing but negative space in the absence of what it tore apart.

Watching the tank fall away into nothingness, America destroying their attackers with only one hand, England felt suddenly that they were losing their grip on one another. He looked down at their clasped hands, seeing that - indeed - their palms were slipping apart, fingers sliding helplessly over one another. He fumbled to close the gap again, America still fighting with all his strength, but couldn't, his fingertips scrambling for purchase until suddenly-

America was wrenched off him, Clark bodily wrestling his nation to the wall.

"Let go of me!" America exploded, fighting back like an animal. "Fuck, we were _so close_...!"

Clark elbowed him in the face, sending a spray of blood from his nose and quietening him.

"Mr Hall and I have seen quite enough of your little display," he drawled icily. "Zip your pants up."

"Are you quite finished?" Hall added sharply; England had not moved an inch, being as it was that Hall had his gun pressed to his temple.

"For now, I suppose," England huffed, looking at the wall. He gestured to his trousers, which were around his ankles. "May I?"

Hall snorted and lifted his gun, nodding.

"Yes, please do," he sniffed. He looked to Clark. "What to do, Mr Clark?" A glance to his gun. "...One of us is going to have to take care of the problem." His eyes were very hard when they fell upon America, who was hunched against the wall, clearly furious. "...Personally I would suggest Alfred. He is the obvious troublemaker. It would appear that Arthur is simply easily-led."

"Looks that way." Clark looked disappointed. "Well, I'll have to make contact with the White House first regarding either a wipe or an execution."

"Of course." Hall nodded crisply.

"Uh, I'm standing right here," America said icily, looking between them.

Clark snorted.

"It's hardly your decision, all the same," he said grimly. "You ain't the one who's gotta deal with the consequences."

"I am so very tired of hearing about the "consequences"," England snapped, sitting up. "If you will insist on treating us like caged animals-"

"Yes, that's quite enough from you, Arthur," Hall interrupted, raising his gun again. "Mr Clark, if you would be so kind as to take your charge."

"Of course." Clark gave a nod and ushered America to the door with his own gun. "I'm awful sorry about the glitches. I'll have them seen to as soon as possible."

"That would be most kind. Until then."

America, England thought, left with such little fuss that it was suspicious; he knew him so well by now, even with his memory before 1945 wiped, that something was stirred him now. He had seen it in America's darkened eyes as he'd stood against the wall. No, this wasn't over. Not yet.

"Well then," Hall sighed angrily, "I suppose I'll make some tea and enter the data manually." He looked at England in disgust. "You've all made a past-time, I see, of making our jobs as difficult as possible."

"Mr Hall, a little bit of paperwork never hurt anyone," England replied, getting off the bed. "In the meantime, I hope you'll excuse me."

Hall looked at him incredulously.

"..._Excuse _you?" he repeated. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Oh, I'm leaving. I really can't tell you just how fed up I am. I do hope you won't try to stop me." England went to the chair to retrieve his suit jacket. "I don't want to have to kill you."

"Arthur." Hall sounded almost amused as he drew his pistol again. "You're being absurd. I don't know quite what that brat Alfred has done to your brain but let me make it clear: you are not leaving this room." He unlatched the safety. "That is final."

"I see," England said, his eyebrows arching.

He left his jacket and came back to Hall, daring so close that the barrel of the pistol was almost touching his chest. Hall met his gaze unwaveringly, not so much as twitching even when there was an almighty thud against the door.

"Do you know, Mr Hall," England said calmly, "that I can't stand it when you interrupt me? You do it often and so very condescendingly. I think you forget how dreadfully old I am sometimes." He smiled at Hall's guarded expression. "Of course, _I _can't remember either - but all the same, I do think you ought to have a little more respect. I am your nation, after all."

He moved his arm far too fast for Hall to follow, grasping the pistol and twisting Hall's whole arm so that his grip loosened and the gun all but fell into his own hand. He swung it over on his forefinger and pointed it at Hall, who was floored, utterly speechless.

"Nonetheless, thank you for your years of service," he went on nonchalantly. "You are an unpleasant man but you have done your job impeccably. I suppose I cannot fault that. I'm sure you will have no trouble finding employment elsewhere."

He snapped open the pistol and let the gold bullets clatter to the floor, bouncing and rolling over the carpet. He kicked a few near his foot under the bed.

"Good day," he said pleasantly, tossing the empty weapon onto the rumpled bedsheets.

He turned away again, smoothing his hair down. He'd take a moment, he thought, to neaten himself up in the mirror, listening to America struggling with Clark outside-

"That is quite enough!" Hall threw himself at England from behind; he was clumsy, though, England watching him in the mirror and whirling to take the blow on his forearm. He knocked it aside and Hall stumbled, righting himself at the bedside. England had never seen him look as angry as he did now.

Blinded by his rage, Hall was in clear disregard of his nation's greater strength; that had been the mercy of the guns, after all. He launched himself once more at England, who caught his wrist and slammed the heel of his hand first into Hall's chest and then into his shoulder socket, dislocating his arm. Hall reeled with a terrible sound, an agonised gurgling somewhere in the back of his throat, and England saw him reaching blindly for the table lamp. Twisting his whole body behind his hips, all of his weight went into the kick to Hall's solar plexus, crunching him to the wall. Hall crumpled as England stepped back with the lightness of a dancer; the man was not unconscious but he wouldn't be getting up any time soon.

"I said good day," England repeated sharply.

He turned on his heel and got his suit jacket from the back of the chair, pulling it on and buttoning it. He was straightening his tie and shirt collar, still rumpled from the barely-there sex, when the hotel room door suddenly opened and America leaned in.

"Ready to go, baby?" he asked; he leaned against the doorframe with a nonchalance befitting a casual dinner date, perhaps.

"I certainly am." England gave his jacket a tiny tug and his appearance a half-satisfied once-over; it would have to do. He smiled at America as he reached him. "Shall we?"

"You bet." America took his hand and made quite the show of leading him out. "Oh, watch your step." This was directed to Clark's bulk sprawled just outside the doorway, over which America helped England as though they had come across a muddy puddle in the street.

"And what now?" England asked, turning to him. They were alone in the hotel corridor - the first time they had been alone together in a real, physical sense since (England supposed) 1945. "We just walk out?"

"Nah." America's grip on his hand tightened. "We run like hell."

And then he was off, hauling England with him (who stumbled at first, taken aback, but pushed his strength into his legs and kept level with America's monstrous speed as best he could). This was familiar, of course, after the blind running of the American Dream - but his heart pounded ever faster at the knowledge that this was real, they were really and truly _running _for their freedom after all these years, the sort of shoes made for business meetings pounding on weathered hotel carpet, silk ties flapping. Their gazes met and America grinned happily at him, so very pleased with himself.

He stopped suddenly, however, dragging England back as he paused, bouncing all the balls of his feet, to look at the elevator just it closed. The lit numbers above the doors shimmied down to 11.

"Eleven, eleven...!" America turned to England. "What floor are we on?"

"Fourteen."

"Then let's go!" America dashed away again, England scrambling after him.

"We won't get down two floors in time!" England protested, pointing to the stairs.

"Sure we will." America skipped past the staircase and put one hand on the banister; he threw his other arm around England's waist and hoisted him up.

"Wait!" England seized at America's lapels as they perched precariously on the wooden banister, the huge drop of the staircase's core yawning before them. "Jesus Christ, Alfred...!"

America leapt, pulling England with him, and they plummeted a short, terrfiying way before America caught the rungs of the banister two floors down and stopped them, feet swinging in the abyss. He pushed England up first, letting him catch on to the banister's handrail, and then clambered up to join him.

"Honest to god," England said breathlessly, glaring at him as he hoisted himself over the rail, "you are _off your rocker_."

"Hey, hey, this is a daring escape!" America chirped, springing lightly onto his feet. He beckoned wildly. "Now let's catch that elevator!"

He tore away once more, vanishing to the right down the elevator's little alcove. England followed, rounding the corner just as the lift doors slid neatly open and a single man stepped out and bustled on his way. England passed him and joined America, who sprang in and reached back to pull England after him. America jabbed the lobby button savagely until the doors closed again with a _ding_, at which England leaned back against the lift wall and exhaled deeply.

"Good grief," he muttered, "I'll sleep tonight..."

"No you won't." The elevator rumbling beneath them as it glided downwards between floors, America suddenly closed in on England, all but pinning him to the wall. "Not tonight, the first night since the end of the war that..." He ran his thumb over England's cheek. "...Well, it'll be the first night we'll be alone. Just you, me and whatever grotty motel room we can find. No attendants, no economy ratings, no limitations." He smiled, drawing closer still. "Just us."

He kissed him, taking him tightly into his arms. England put his hands to America's hips in turn, tilting his head up into the kiss. It burned brighter than their perfected kisses in the American Dream, a little less smooth with a bit too much tongue and the clash of teeth, it had been twelve years, after all; but it was real, their hands roamed over real bodies and their fingers tangled in real hair and their teeth caught on real bottom lips - and their need for air was real, too, so that they broke with a breathless laugh.

"There's time enough," America promised, pushing back England's fringe to kiss between his brows. The lift came to a rattling halt as he spoke. "Ready?"

England took a breath and nodded.

"Yes," he replied. They joined hands again. "Please, let's go. I've had all I can take."

America nodded and the doors opened behind him, revealing the marble and buffed glass of the lobby. They sprinted out past the crowd of guests waiting for the lift, pushing through into the bustling atrium. It was early evening, with a great many people milling around the lobby and its surrounding sevices: the reception desk, the plush lounge, the oak-panelled bar. A few nations, coupled with their attendants, were dotted around; England spotted France and Fonteneau sitting with Austria and his attendant over drinks.

"Place is crawling with damned attendants," America muttered, slowing as he led England down the red-carpeted stairs to the main lobby. "We gotta try and not draw attention."

"Are you even capable of such a thing?" England asked dryly.

"Haha." America let go of England's hand. "Just walk beside me and keep close. We're in suits so hopefully we'll blend in."

England nodded, his green eyes trained on the four familiar faces at the bar. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. If France or Austria spotted them, they might accidentally give them away.

"Could do with that battle rifle now, huh?" America went on, the nervousness in his voice making him sound very young. "Demand that they just let the whole lot of us walk out."

"One step at a time, love." England brushed America's hand reassuringly.

"Well, yeah, that's the plan."

The vast glass revolving door with its black-and-gold embroidered carpet grew nearer and nearer; they were close, so very close, to the freedom of the street, the anonymity of the crowds of New York-

"You are going somewhere?"

Italian accent. England stopped dead, catching at America's sleeve; a glance over his shoulder confirmed his dread. It was Moretti, North Italy's attendant, whom they hadn't spotted, to their peril. He had his gun drawn and Italy, Japan and Takano not far behind him.

"Just a walk," America said, taking England's hand. "Bit of fresh air, you know?"

Moretti arched his eyebrows.

"Without Signors Hall and Clark?" He shook his head. "How unusual." Now he gestured to the reception desk with his pistol, ignoring Italy, who had come to his side. "I think you two will accompany me over here."

"Oh, to hell with this." America flipped his middle finger at Moretti, turned and fled, hanging on grim-death to England. "Not when we've gotten this far!"

They pounded across the marble, England glancing back over his shoulder to see Moretti aim his pistol and squeeze the trigger; North Italy flung himself into him, knocking him offbalance. The bullet fired and clanged somewhere off to the right as Moretti cursed in Italian and kicked Italy aside. The comotion had gathered a bit of an audience, the French and Austrian attendants at last scurrying to join the gaggle; a few of the Scandinavians, joined by Russia and his aide, were at the bar, it seemed, and they too were drawn to the scene.

England might have known that America would be exactly the sort to grow utterly intoxicated by this sort of rebellion; he had been freed by revolution, England had seen it for himself even if he could not remember. America was revelling in the audience now, leaping lightly onto a low table occupied by a few gentlemen with amber drinks and loosened ties. He pulled England onto his stage with him, turning to face the gathering of attendants and nations in the middle of the lobby.

"It'd be fitting, I guess," he drawled cheerily, "to reel off the whole Declaration of Independence, give or take a few choice words - but I'm not gonna do that. I'm just gonna say 'Don't tread on me' and be done with it. We're leaving, Arthur and I - and you can't fucking stop us, so there."

He looked to England, grinning.

"Now what was it your Shakespeare said? "The game's afoot..."?"

"Follow your spirit," England replied, for he did see that, indeed, America strained upon the start like Shakespeare's Henry's greyhounds, "and upon this charge-"

"Cry God!" America pounded their joined hands into the air as though leading a rally. "For Harry, whoever he is! And for England!" He gestured wildly to England, who bowed to give his theatrics a little merit. "And for St George, who might as well be Mr Washington!"

He saluted the crowd and hopped down again, England close on his heel as they started determinedly for the door once more, leaving their dumbstruck audience behind. America had a cheerful and childish bound in his step as the glass doors came within the distance of touching, even as various attendants scrambled for their pistols, their shouts ringing throughout the marbled lobby-

America seized up suddenly, his hand going very stiff in England's, just as they stepped onto the weave of the entrance carpet; he seemed to lose all ability to run, his legs locking up so that he stumbled wildly, grabbing at England.

"Alfred!" England grabbed him by the elbows, trying to drag him upright again. "What's wrong?!"

"Shit, shit..." America fisted his hands into England's sleeves; he could barely talk, gritting his teeth as he fought. "Forgot about... the damned... the..."

"The what?!" England shook him roughly. "_Alfred_!"

"The... sh-shut-down..." In a sudden final burst of strength, America tightened his grip on England and pulled him close, his blue eyes wide and hunted. "Help me! Override it! Please help me, Arthur!"

"I-I don't...!" England panicked as he felt America go very limp in his grasp. "I don't know how!" He shook him again. "Alfred! Wait!"

Every last scrap of life went out of America's eyes - indeed, his very face - and he slipped out of England's arms, toppling sideways to land like a discarded toy on the black-and-gold. His eyes were wide open but completely sightless. Still he breathed but not a muscle in his body moved besides.

"Alfred!" England fell to his knees at his side, shaking his shoulder. "God damn it, Alfred, get up!" Harder. "Please, get up, you got up before...!"

"But you're no longer in his head, Arthur." England looked up as Hall limped towards him, emerging like a ghoul from the innards of the crowd. "He can no longer make the rules."

He tossed something towards England, the both of them watching it bounce over the marble, skidding to a halt on the black. England looked down at it: it was Clark's calculator for America's economy ratings.

"I shut him down," Hall went on sharply, wiping at his bleeding nose, his dislocated arm hanging grotesquely at his side. "And I'll do the same to you if you refuse to come quietly."

"I've had just about enough of coming quietly," England replied stiffly, standing to place himself between Hall and America's body. He stepped on Clark's calculator, twisting his heel into its heart to make the plastic snap and the wires burst out. "I should have killed you."

"Yes, perhaps you should have." Hall slipped out his own calculator as the other attendants gathered at his back began to level their weapons at England; he waved his hand dismissively at them. "Oh, that won't be necessary, gents."

"Won't it?" England growled, starting towards him. "I'll rip you apart, Mr Hall, make no mistake."

"Mr Moretti, aim your gun at Alfred," Hall sighed. "Mr Takano, you too - oh, and Mr Fonteneau, if you'd be so kind."

Their guns obediently clicked over - and England stopped, looking uncertainly between them all. All of these men knew no mercy towards their kind, they had made it very clear. Moretti had been the one to shoot Germany, after all.

"I thought as much," Hall said calmly as England at last stepped back again, shielding America from the rallied pistols. "At least you know when you're beaten, Arthur."

England averted his gaze icily, his eyes meeting France's instead; France simply gave him a helpless look, sighing deeply. Now England looked to Italy: Feliciano, Valentino, it didn't seem to matter which, he was unquelled. He had thrown himself at Moretti to distract him, to aid their escape. There were certain creatures, it seemed - beings like Italy and America - who simply could not be wiped. They were anomalies and England wondered, in fact, if he was not _still _looking at Feliciano Vargas, breathing still beneath the transluscent mask of Valentino - the coward who would not surrender all the same.

"_Am _I beaten, Mr Hall?" England sighed, looking back to his attendant. "What can you really do to me, I wonder, without Mr Churchill skinning you alive?" He examined his fingernails thoughtfully, aware that Hall was watching him with prudence. "...There's always Colossus, after all."

All of the colour drained out of Gregory Hall's face. There was muttering behind him as the seed sparked and set off, the other attendants now pausing to regard Hall with suspicion - and not least Kryukov, Russia's aide.

"Comrade Hall, it was my understanding that Churchill had ordered the computer to be destroyed, no?" the Russian man drawled dangerously. "...Or is there perhaps something that you would like to share?"

Hall's face twitched. He was livid and England, of course, was satisfied, smiling sick-sweetly at his attendant when he snapped his face back to him.

"Goodness," Hall said icily, "you _do _think you're clever, don't you, Arthur?" He sneered at him. "I don't believe you even know what Colossus _is_."

"But we do!" Kryukov barked. "And still you have not answered my question!"

"Mr Kryukov-" Hall began tersely.

"Mr Churchill and Mr Hall don't wish to share anything," England interrupted; he tapped at his temple. "...Otherwise they wouldn't have hidden it in-"

His body froze just as America's had, his voice sticking and grinding in his throat; Hall had slammed his thumb down on the calculator's shut-down function, sending the system built into England's body to sleep and rapidly, violently, taking the rest of him with it against his will. His knees buckled and gave out and he couldn't move an inch to save himself as he went down, falling gracelessly across America's stilled form. His nerves were blunted by now and he didn't feel the impact, only found himself suddenly staring up at the wondrous ceiling in dimming colours. His hearing bleakened and vanished, leaving him with only the blurred-edge sight of Hall coming to stand over him as his body was dragged into shut-down.

Hall looked rattled, his white fist clenched around the calculator. He glared down at England, opening his mouth to speak - though England but saw his lips move and didn't hear a word.

The override, so seamlessly his when America pulled the strings, did not come; and nor did the wings of Britannia Angel. The world fell in around him and he was powerless to stop it - just as they had been made in 1945.

* * *

><p>...Ah, it was exhausting to write, let me tell you! XD It's also all one scene, too, hahaha. America pulls a little bit of a Frodo (circa <em>The Fellowship of the Ring<em>) in this, what with his constant getting stabbed/shot/shut-down, while England is channeling _Titanic_'s Rose, who says Jack's name _more than eighty times _over the course of the film. o.O

England saying there are two floors between Floor 14 and Floor 11 isn't a maths error: many hotels, of course, "omit" the thirteenth floor so that superstitious customers won't whine about having their room on that floor.

This fic keeps borrowing more and more influences! At first it was just _Nineteen Eighty-Four _and _Inception _but this chapter in particular had definite airs of _Neon Genesis Evangelion _and _The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya_, I think! :3

I really hope this chapter was worth the wait, everyone! I'm hoping to finish the story up in the new year sometime. Thank you all for your patience and your kind comments. C:

RobinRocks

xXx


	5. 01000001

...Ummm, does anybody even remember this story, haha? I can't believe I didn't get around to updating it AT ALL during 2013! o.O I feel very guilty because I _love _this story and it's never far from my mind - but making time for it has been such a nightmare...

Anyway, we're here now with the prelude to the final chapter (which I hope to complete... soon). This is a flashback but VERY important so I wanted to give it its own space.

A HUGE thank you to **jagaimo-chan**, a native German-speaker, for translating the German for me! I didn't want Google Translate nonsense cluttering up my fic so instead you're all in for a treat of fluent, perfect German. :3 (There will be an English translation at the bottom)

Well, it's Mayuge Day in the APH fandom so I thought today was the perfect day to rise from the grave with this story, haha. So let's go!

01000001

"There you are."

America leaned around the doorframe of the huge room, cold and loud with the sound of the machine. England, cross-legged on the concrete floor with a nest of teleprinter paper strewn about him, gave him no acknowledgement. His pale lips moved silently as he ran the reams of punched paper through his fingertips. Every now and then he paused to pick up his pencil and scribble down a figure on the open notepad before him.

"Hello? Arthur?" Alfred stepped into the room, making as much noise as he could with his heavy boots. "Anyone home?"

"Go away, Alfred," England said absently.

"Hey, I looked all over for you!" America pouted. "Don't be like that."

At last England paused, looking up to meet his gaze. His expression was weary.

"I'm _clearly _in the middle of something." He rubbed at his forehead, muttering to himself for a moment. "Look, you're distracting me. Go _away_."

America did nothing of the sort, shimmying into the room. He glanced about, popping his bubble gum as his eyes settled on the biggest contender for his attention: Colossus. The super-computer filled half the room, arranged rather like a library with stacks in cream-painted steel, within which were nestled a precise arrangement of wheels and teleprinters and flashing lights. It was loud and alive, spitting out reams of encoded teleprinter paper which coiled obediently at England's side.

It made a little shiver go down America's back to see that England was hooked up to the machine again. They plugged Colossus in along his spine, the crackling wires fanning out behind him like skeletal wings, and ran the decryption process through him. He wasn't the best mathematician in Bletchley Park, hardly in the league of Alan Turing, Bill Tutte and Tommy Flowers, but his brain, being that of a nation, naturally worked differently to that of even the most brilliant human. The boys at Bletchley had figured out early on that their nation could be used as a processor faster than anything they could build.

It made sense, America knew. It didn't make him any happier. It was _he _who kissed the slow-healing holes along England's spinal cord, he who knew that England wouldn't admit to Turing and Flowers that it hurt.

"Arty," he said softly, crouching in front of him. "Stop for a little while." He reached out and closed his hands around England's, the paper crumpling. "Take a quick break with me, yeah? Just twenty minutes or so-"

"I'm busy." England shook himself free, smoothing out the paper.

"Tea?" America insisted. "It's not like you to refuse."

"I don't need anything." A weary glance. "Alfred, won't you go?"

"Oh." America folded his arms over his knees. "I get it." He watched England's fingertips chasing blindly over the teleprinter paper, drawing out the code. "They've engaged your wartime protocol. That's how you're able to sit here for hours, doing their bidding like a goddamned machine."

"Their _bidding_?" At last England looked up at him, his thick eyebrows knitted. "You speak as though I have no stake in all this - as though _we _haven't." He shook his fistful of teleprinter paper at Alfred. "But the fact is that the quicker I can decrypt Tunny, the better the chances our boys have on their raids, the better the chances we have of _winning_."

"I know that," America argued, "but you're not Bletchley Park all by yourself, Arthur. It's not fair to put so much responsibility solely on your shoulders."

England shook his head, going back to his furious work.

"We're nations," he said. "Our shoulders are more than broad enough."

America exhaled through his nose, pushing up again. He could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with him: in this state there was very little of 'Arthur', England taking up almost every shred of space of that body with its broad-enough shoulders. The same was true enough of any nation locked within their wartime protocol: activated by the blood of a monarch or leader, this was a system which nullified any and all human needs to create an efficent, robot-like super-soldier. It would be hopeless to tempt England with tea when his need for liquid was non-existent.

"I guess I can't even interest you in a smoke, huh?" America knew, of course, what the answer to this would be; he half-heartedly fished out the crumpled packet of Lucky Strikes from the pocket of his bomber jacket.

He held it out hopefully. England looked at it in disinterest.

"_Go_," he said coldly.

"Fine." America wilted, turning away. "I'll, uh... catch up with you later."

"Yes, do that." England sounded distracted; when America looked back, he could see him bent over his notepad, pencil scrambling over the paper. He had a sudden frantic look in his eyes - as though the information was coming faster than he could keep up with. The muscles in his hand corded with the effort.

"Arty..." Cigarette between his teeth, America paused in the doorway. "You're... okay, aren't you?"

"Never better." A bit of a nosebleed. "I've got something, you see... it's coming terribly quickly, must be urgent..."

"Your nose is bleeding." Alfred frowned, discomfited. "Is that normal?"

"Luftwaffe squadron ZG52, coordinates SW14B." England wasn't listening anymore, instead rattling off his translations as he wrote them down.

America had never heard him do that before.

"Squadron ZG141, coordinates SE22, south over Paris." The tapping of his pencil was like Morse code. "RAF Squadron No. 94, coordinates unknown, defence over Dover. Order: intercept."

"_Great_," America sighed. "Shall I go tell-?"

"Repeat: intercept." England suddenly sounded strange and wooden. "Intercept." A peculiar pause. "Abfangen. Befehl: Zerstören."

His back against the doorframe, America looked at him; he had the oddest feeling inside him, clammy, heavy, suddenly weighted. He had never known terror quite like it.

"Angriff über den französischen Küstenlinien, Koordinaten SW12, Schwachstelle in der Normandie-Verteidigung." His crisp accent didn't cling to the jaggedness of the words, rattling oddly about them. "Schwadron ZG101 bereithalten zum Einsatz. Vorgesehenes Ziel der RAF: Dresden."

"Arthur, stop it!" America came to him, seizing the hand which bore the pencil. "Are you listening?!" He shook him. "Why are you speaking _German_?!"

"Verteidigt Dresden um jeden Preis." England looked at him blankly, limp in his grasp. "Diese britischen Bastarde haben uns Coventry nie verziehen."

"What are you saying?" America demanded. "I know you're talking about yourself!"

Nothing. England couldn't hear him, thrust into a sudden semi-conscious state in which his only language seemed to be German, the tongue of their enemy. His nose continued to steadily bleed as he looked dully, unseeingly, at America.

"_Arthur_!" America gave him another frustrated shake. "What the hell is _wrong _with you?!"

"Schwadron ZG101, sofort ausschwärmen!" England seemed suddenly panicked, his eyes wild. He trembled under America's touch, going very stiff. "RAF und USAAF in Zangenformation, errechnete Koordinaten zwischen SO26-28. Verstärkung dringend erforderlich! Wiederhole: Sofort ausschwärmen!"

He coughed suddenly, blood bursting from his nose, sliding thickly over his lip as he shuddered; his eyes rolled back in his head as he swayed and slid out of America's grasp, toppling to the concrete. America recoiled, his hands open. He hadn't a clue what the hell he was supposed to do: England was lying in a twisted heap amidst the reels of teleprinter paper, his eyes unseeing, his bloodied lips moving without sound. The wires and cords coiled out over the concrete beneath him, a map to the monstrous machine beyond. Colossus was going crazy, shrill in its demand for attention that England could no longer give.

America looked at Colossus, then at England; and then ran to get help, his heart alight with anger. He wanted England disconnected from that horrible machine this _instant_.

Tommy Flowers came hurrying from his lunch; and he took a brief look at his nation comatose on the concrete, America flapping helplessly at his side, before agreeing that disconnecting him was the best course of action.

"You've never seen him do this?" America looked at Flowers accusingly.

"This is unusual. Colossus has never had such an effect on him before."

"He was spouting _German_." America crouched next to him, reaching out to give him a shake. "Arthur?"

Nothing.

"Lift him up," Flowers said briskly.

America did so, taking him under the arms and hefting him to his knees; England slumped lifelessly against his shoulder, blood blotching along his spine where the plugs went in. Flowers twisted them out one by one, tossing them to the floor, and when the last plug came out England gave a sudden gasp at America's shoulder and revived. He clutched at the leather sleeves of America's jacket, panting for breath.

"It's okay, you're alright now." America held him tight, his voice low in his ear. "I've got you."

England nodded. He was shivering uncontrollably.

"Go and clean him up," Flowers said, gathering up the wires; he picked up England's notepad, too, looking at it briefly. "I'll report to Turing."

"Alright," America said coolly. He glanced at England. "Can you stand?"

"I think so." England's voice cracked a little. America held him around the ribcage and helped him push to his feet; he was still shaking and America didn't know if he was cold or not but was quick to shrug off his jacket and drape it over his shoulders, wrapping him in it. England nodded his thanks, clutching at the edges of it.

"I'll leave it to you, then," America said.

"Yes." Flowers held up the notepad. "Arthur, I think Turing should see this."

"Of course he should." England looked at him rather tiredly. "Isn't that the point?"

Flowers frowned.

"You know he doesn't like mistakes."

England turned away again.

"It's not a mistake," he said.

* * *

><p>"God," England grumbled, wrapping his hands around his mug of tea, "I need a bloody holiday."<p>

America inhaled on his Lucky Strike, nodding.

"I feel like I haven't slept in ten years," he agreed. "Tell you what: after the war's over we'll get in my car and do Route 66, yeah? Just get out on the open road without a care in the world between us, live on junk in roadside greasy spoons and make love in cold motel beds, a different one each night." He grinned, thinking of the sweat and the dust and the sky. "Sounds like a dream, huh?"

"The _American _Dream, in fact."

America pulled a face.

"Even so, whatcha think?"

"I'll admit it doesn't sound half-bad." England smirked at him. "It can't be any worse than _this_."

"Well, gee, that's the spirit." America tilted his head. "You feeling better?"

He enquired after this now that England's wartime protocol had been disengaged; he was eating as though he hadn't in days - which he probably hadn't - and there was still a faint orangeish stain from the blood on his face.

"Much, thank you." A frown. "I really don't know what came over me, my control is usually much better. It's the first time that's ever happened."

"It was really weird to hear you speaking German."

"I _can _speak German," England reminded him. "I've had plenty of German monarchs."

"Well, yeah, I know _that_," America said, "but at a time like this-"

"I can't just _un_learn it, you know. That would be asking me to forget a part of my history. It's not that simple."

"Of course it isn't." America gave a smoky exhale, looking to the window.

The sun was coasting low along the black horizon, a warm orange dusk settling in over the gravelled woodlands surrounding Bletchley Park. It was like a mouthful of honey, sticky, oppressive; it made him remember that they could make all the plans they wanted but they would never be free. Of course, he was mature enough now to realise that his enemy in 1775 hadn't been the man opposite him at all - but his government, his king, his _humans_.

"Arthur," he said, resting his chin on his knuckles, "when did you realise you were in love with me?"

England, snapping a biscuit in half, paused, blinking at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said when did you realise you loved me?"

England arched his eyebrows.

"No, you said _in love_."

"If you heard me, why did you make me repeat it?" America looked moodily at his cigarette.

"Well, I confess I wondered if you would repeat it word-for-word- which you didn't. Curious." England took a bite of his biscuit, chewing thoughtfully. "They're not the same thing - but of course you know that. And you must know too that I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. It's completely unconditional."

"Like a mother's."

"Well, yes." England frowned. "Now being _in love _is trickier to pinpoint. I suppose I don't know precisely. ...Perhaps the Great War?" He shook his head. "I shouldn't like to put too much of a label on it, really."

"That's okay." America felt a little embarrassed now; England was watching him expectantly. "For, uh... for me it was... um, the Revolution."

England arched his eyebrows.

"Really? That early?"

"Because I saw _you_," America said. "I saw the war machine underneath - and the war machine saw me as a threat, as a nation."

"I see. You didn't say anything until three years ago."

"I thought you hated me." America tapped off his ash.

"I thought I did, too," England admitted. "But I couldn't shoot you that day, could I? That has to speak for itself, Alfred - because I had wartime protocol engaged. Nothing should have clouded my judgement - especially not you, the way you just stood there, unarmed, as though you'd been expecting it. I should have just pulled the trigger and been done with it." He shrugged, looking at his tea. "...But I couldn't do it."

"Because you loved me."

"Apparently so." England frowned again, looking up at America. "I say, Alfred, what's this about?"

"Ah, nothing really." America took a last inhale on his smoke and stubbed it out. "I was talking to Mr Roosevelt a while back. He asked if nations can feel love. I said I was pretty sure we could, though it might not be the same way that humans feel it. I mean, almost _all _living creatures can feel love, right? Like a mommy cat will love her kittens, stuff like that. Overall, I said that if he was trying to gauge how human we are, love probably isn't the best indicator. ...How do you even _describe _love, anyway?"

"Well, quite." A pause. "And why _is _Mr Roosevelt so interested in that sort of thing?"

"Oh, they've been doing a few tests with me," America said airily. "Just this and that, you know. Stuff to do with... uh, the bomb."

"Ah. Nothing too intrusive, I hope."

America looked at him over his glasses.

"Arty, your guys stick plugs into your _spine_."

"I know," England said despairingly, "but I'm the only one with the capacity to keep up with Colossus. I can't very well refuse."

"What were you babbling about, anyway? I couldn't understand a word you were saying - well, except RAF and USAAF. You were talking about yourself at some point, too, right?"

"I said the British haven't forgotten Coventry - which we haven't."

"Oh, yeah, that's the city the Germans bombed into a hole in the ground, right?"

"Indeed." England looked distractedly out of the window; at the tall shadows stretching over the driveway. "...I was deciphering an encoded message about the bombing of Dresden."

America's brow scrunched in puzzlement.

"What bombing of Dresden?"

"The one that will take place between the 13th and 15th of February, 1945."

"...It's 1944."

"Yes." England seemed terribly interested in his tea. "It hasn't happened yet."

"Wait." America held up his hands. "Are you seriously telling me... that you _saw the future_?"

"I didn't see it, I decoded a message about it."

"How could there be a message about it if it hasn't happened yet?!"

"Colossus is a terribly powerful machine," England said absently.

"So powerful it can read the goddamn _future_?"

"Well, I suppose if you think of time as a permeable system of data, it makes sense that a decryption programme like Colossus would break down the "barrier" of what hasn't happened yet, you see." England looked at him, biting at his bottom lip. "I see it like this: decoding messages requires a decryption of the scrambled letters overlaying the proper text. Once it's decoded, you can read it in perfect German. If you consider the _fact _that the Dresden bombing hasn't happened yet to be the encryption, if you use Colossus to decode it, then you have access to it. It's simple enough."

"Arthur..." America was grinning at him. "That's _incredible_."

"Yes, I suppose it is." England straightened suddenly. "That does _not _leave this room," he added sharply. "Do you hear me, Alfred?"

"Like I'm gonna go blabbing that!" America shook his head. "It's too crazy to believe anyway!"

"But _you _believe me."

"Of course _I _do!" America combed his hands through his hair. "Well, damn. You always say don't get on well with new technology and then you figure out how to _use Colossus to see the future_."

"I didn't figure it out," England said primly. "It just happened. I expect running a super-computer through a nation's brain is extremely dangerous; I shudder to think what else I - or any other nation - could do with it if we really tried."

"Maybe it's not _Colossus _that's the terribly powerful machine," America mused.

"No," England agreed. "...I rather think it's us."

* * *

><p><strong>Colossus<strong> was the world's first (semi) programmable, electronic, digital computer, designed and realised by engineer **Tommy Flowers **in 1943. It was created to help decrypt the encoded teleprinter messages of Nazi Germany, which were encrypted using the **LorenzSZ40** (known as **Tunny **to the British codebreakers, as they had never seen one). The Lorenz was similar to **Enigma **(cracked by **Alan Turing**) but more advanced; it used 12 wheels to encode messages and ran through a teleprinter instead of Morse Code. Colossus worked using a method of probability to work out the start position of the wheels; this was possible only because of a mistake made by a German operator, offering Bletchley Park a "key stream" and allowing mathematician **Bill Tutte **to deduct the physical pattern of the Lorenz (again, no-one in Britain had ever seen this machine before). It's amazing to realise that the world's very first computer was designed based on the understanding of a machine no-one had seen!

Of course, this is the briefest of overviews! If you are interested in the Bletchley Park codebreakers and Colossus, I highly recommend the BBC documentary _Codebreakers: Bletchley Park's Lost Heroes_ (easily found on Youtube - I put a link but FFNet ate it). This is one of the best documentaries I have ever seen; it's partly what inspired _Shatter_, in fact. The information, narration, experts and even the editing are all top-notch. Definitely worth a watch if you have an hour to kill! :3

**The original English text:**

_"Intercept." A peculiar pause. "Intercept. Order: destroy."_

_His back against the doorframe, America looked at him; he had the oddest feeling inside him, clammy, heavy, suddenly weighted. He had never known terror quite like it._

_"Engage over French coastal lines, coordinates SW12, weakness in Normandy defence." His crisp accent didn't cling to the jaggedness of the words, rattling oddly about them. "ZG101, stand-by for deployment. Suggested RAF target: Dresden."_

_"Arthur, stop it!" America came to him, seizing the hand which bore the pencil. "Are you listening?!" He shook him. "Why are you speaking German?!"_

_"Defend Dresden at all costs." England looked at him blankly, limp in his grasp. "Those British bastards haven't forgiven us for Coventry."_

_"What are you saying?" America demanded. "I know you're talking about yourself!"_

_Nothing. England couldn't hear him, thrust into a sudden semi-conscious state in which his only language seemed to be German, the tongue of their enemy. His nose continued to steadily bleed as he looked dully, unseeingly, at America. _

_"Arthur!" America gave him another frustrated shake. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"_

_"ZG101, deploy immediately!" England seemed suddenly panicked, his eyes wild. He trembled under America's touch, going very stiff. "RAF and USAAF pincer formation, calculated coordinates between SE26-28. Back-up urgent! Repeat: deploy immediately!"_

Once again, thanks so much to** jagaimo-chan **for her kindness in helping me out with the translation. I really appreciate it!

...I really hope I can finish this story soon, omfg. I've had an idea for a sequel for about a year and half, would you believe...

Happy Mayuge Day!

(P.S: The title is binary.)


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